Yin stood by the window, the soft glow of the early morning light casting long shadows across the room. He watched the world wake up, the streets slowly filling with the noise of the city, but inside him there was a quiet, unshakable emptiness. The apartment was silent except for the sound of his own breathing, and the soft hum of the refrigerator in the corner.
It had been like this for months—silent. But it had never felt louder than it did now.
The memories of War, his partner, his love, seemed to swirl around him like dust in the air, too small to hold, too big to ignore.
War.
They had been inseparable once. From the first time they met at a friend’s party, their connection had been immediate, a spark that turned into a fire. War was the kind of person who walked into a room and made it brighter, louder, fuller. Yin, on the other hand, was quiet, reserved, like the stillness of a lake before the storm. But War made him feel seen, and for the first time in his life, he felt as though his heart beat in time with another person’s.
It hadn’t always been easy, though. The world wasn’t always kind to them, not in the ways they needed. And even when they thought they had built something strong, something that would survive anything, the cracks began to show.
"Yin," War had whispered one night, his voice shaky, on the edge of something breaking. "I don’t think I can do this anymore."
Yin had looked at him, unable to understand, the words catching in his throat.
“I can’t keep pretending like I’m not afraid,” War had continued. “Afraid of who I am, afraid of what people think. I don’t think I can be what you need.”
Yin had wanted to reach out, to hold him, to say something—anything—that would make it all better. But he couldn’t. There was a wall between them, a distance he didn’t know how to close. The love was still there, but it felt like a fragile thing, slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he held on.
Now, months later, Yin was still trying to let go. War had moved out, found a place of his own. The space between them had grown wider, like an ocean too vast to cross.
The phone buzzed in his pocket, interrupting his thoughts. Yin pulled it out, his heart stuttering when he saw the name on the screen.
**War.**
He hesitated, fingers hovering over the screen. It had been so long since they’d spoken, and every conversation felt like walking on broken glass. They’d texted a few times, but only about practical things—his things, his books, his clothes. Nothing personal, nothing real.
He answered the call, his throat tight.
“Yin,” War’s voice crackled through the line, full of hesitation, of something Yin couldn’t place. “I... I’m sorry. I’ve been thinking about you a lot, and I... I need to talk.”
Yin closed his eyes, fighting the tears that had always been so close to the surface when it came to War.
“I’ve been thinking about you too,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
There was a pause, then War spoke again, his voice breaking the silence like thunder.
“I miss you,” he said, the words so simple, but carrying so much weight.
Yin’s chest tightened, the ache of the past months crashing over him all at once. He didn’t know if he was ready to hear this, didn’t know if he could open his heart to the person who had left him behind. But he knew one thing—he missed War too. He missed everything about him. The way War’s laughter would fill up a room, the way his hands felt warm against his skin, the way he could make the world feel like it wasn’t so heavy.
“I miss you too, War,” Yin replied, his voice trembling. “But… what does this mean? What do we do now?”
“I don’t know,” War admitted, the words raw, uncertain. “I don’t know if we can fix what’s broken. I don’t know if I can fix what’s broken inside me.”
Yin felt the sting of those words, the weight of them settling deep into his chest. He had always loved War, loved him in a way that felt like an endless pull, like gravity. But now… now, he wondered if love alone could be enough to repair the damage.
“I’m still here,” Yin said softly. “I always will be.”
“I don’t deserve you,” War said, his voice breaking again. “I’ve hurt you. I’ve kept you at a distance when all you’ve ever done is love me.”
Yin swallowed hard, the lump in his throat almost too much to bear. “I don’t need you to be perfect, War. I just need you to be real. I just need you to stay.”
But silence followed, stretching between them like a long, unspoken goodbye. Yin closed his eyes, wishing he could find the words that would make everything right again. But sometimes there were no words, no easy fixes. Sometimes, love wasn’t enough.
“War… if you need time, I understand,” Yin said, his voice barely audible. “But if you’re not ready… if you can’t be what I need…”
“I know,” War interrupted, the pain in his voice echoing through the line. “I know. I just needed to hear you say it.”
“I’ll wait for you, War,” Yin whispered, even though he didn’t know how long he could. "But only if you’re ready to come back."
The line went silent again. Yin stood there, phone pressed to his ear, feeling the distance stretch even farther, as if the space between them had grown into something insurmountable.
And maybe it had.
But in that moment, Yin realized something—he couldn’t stop loving War, no matter how broken they were, no matter how much time had passed. Love wasn’t always about finding the perfect time, the perfect words. Sometimes, it was just about being willing to hold on, even when everything else felt like it was slipping away.
War had always been the one to fill the silence. And maybe, just maybe, Yin would wait for him to return.
Even if he never did.
End.
