𝑀𝒶𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒮𝑒𝒶 | 𝟏𝟖+

18.

Kairos Vasileiou

"Elle," I murmured, my thumb gently sweeping over her cheek as if that alone could wipe away the hurt I'd put there. Her skin was soft and cool, and I could feel the faintest tremor beneath my touch.

Her gaze remained distant, her eyes unfocused as though she was looking past me, lost somewhere far beyond the confines of this moment. I hated seeing her like this—so still, so vulnerable. It was as if she had gone numb, her body giving up even the pretense of resistance.

Another tear escaped, rolling down slowly, and I caught it with the back of my hand. "Hey," I whispered, keeping my voice low and careful, trying to coax her back from wherever her thoughts had taken her. "Do you want to talk about it?"

The question hung in the air, fragile and tentative, but Elle barely reacted. She gave the smallest shake of her head, almost imperceptible, but I felt it. "No," she said, her voice quiet and thin, barely audible. It was the kind of "no" that didn't just mean refusal; it meant that talking about it wouldn't change anything, wouldn't fix whatever had already fractured inside her.

I didn't push her. Instead, I shifted slightly in the egg chair, pulling her closer, wrapping my arms around her as if I could shield her from whatever storm was raging inside. She didn't resist, didn't lean into me either; she was just... there, a weight in my arms that felt both fragile and immovable. I rubbed her back gently, tracing slow circles against the fabric of her shirt, hoping it would soothe her even if only a little.

The silence stretched out between us, thick and heavy. I could feel the warmth of her breath on my neck, uneven and shallow. She was holding back so much, I could sense it—the thoughts, the fears, the doubts—all coiling tightly inside of her like a tensioned wire waiting to snap.

I wished she would say something, anything, to let me know what was going through her head. But she stayed quiet, the only sounds in the room were the faint rustle of the chair's fabric as I adjusted my hold on her, and the distant hum of the ship's engines.

I kept my hand on her back, fingers tracing the length of her spine, trying to give her whatever comfort I could offer. It felt inadequate—just an instinctive reaction to seeing someone in pain—but it was all I had.

I had spent my life solving problems with actions, plans, and strategies, but there was no clear solution here. No obvious path to take that would make her trust me, make her see that I wasn't the enemy she thought I was.

When I looked down at her, I noticed how hollow her eyes seemed now. The tears hadn't stopped, though they were silent, slipping down her cheeks without a sound. I wiped them away again, this time cupping her face between my hands, trying to make her meet my gaze.

"Elle," I said, a little firmer, though my tone stayed gentle. "Whatever you're feeling, it's okay. You don't have to go through this alone."

Her eyes flickered, a hint of something—perhaps recognition, or maybe just exhaustion—crossing her face. But then it was gone, and she turned her head slightly, slipping from my hands as though my touch was too much for her to bear. I let my arms drop, my fingertips grazing her shoulder one last time before I let them fall away completely.

She drew a shaky breath, finally blinking as though coming back into herself, but she didn't look at me. Her focus stayed on the space beyond the room, somewhere I couldn't follow. I could tell she was shutting me out again, retreating into that place where she felt safest—where words and explanations couldn't reach her.

It wasn't the first time I'd seen someone withdraw like this, but there was something about the way Elle did it that felt different, more final. It was like watching someone let go of a lifeline, surrendering themselves to the current even as they drifted further out to sea.