ʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴘᴇᴇᴅ | 𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣 𝙟𝙖𝙚𝙜𝙚𝙧

30. 𝙄 𝙆𝙉𝙊𝙒 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙀𝙉𝘿

ch 30, 𝙄 𝙆𝙉𝙊𝙒 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙀𝙉𝘿

tw: panic attacks. 

.⋆𐙚 🍒

SOME PROMISES TEACH YOU HOW TO WAIT.

Others teach you how to stop believing.

My father promised he'd be there. Long before I ever breathed, he swore it. Every recital, every performance, every moment that might've mattered enough for me to want his eyes on me. He said it so easily—"I'll be there, sweetheart"—like the words cost him nothing. But the seat always stayed empty. Performance after performance, memory after memory, the promise collapsed into silence that pressed heavier than his absence ever could.

My mother made promises too. That she would soften. That her sharpness could dull, that her love wasn't conditional, that if I worked hard enough, stayed quiet enough, shaped myself into perfection, she'd be proud. But her promises bent until they splintered. They came with barbed edges, with invisible contracts written in ink I could never wash from my skin.

And then there was Finch. Not blood, but closer than anyone who ever shared mine. More brother than friend. More anchor than anyone had the right to be. The last thing he gave me was four words: I'll see you later, Daisy. Tossed into the summer air as if they could hold back the night. Four words that tasted eternal. But later never came. Later disappeared with him. And I've been carrying the echo ever since, trying not to let it hollow me into nothing.

And now—Eren. Under the October sky, two weeks ago, he whispered always. A word so sharp and certain it cut through every defense I'd ever built. For one trembling moment, I believed. I wanted to. God, I wanted to believe that maybe someone, at last, could mean it all the way through. That maybe this time the word wouldn't shatter.

But he's gone too. Vanished into silence, leaving behind nothing but a promise that unraveled in my hands before I could even hold it.

So I keep moving. I keep my hands busy, my body upright, my face steady. Because stillness is dangerous. Stillness is when the noise comes back—my father's disgust, my mother's conditions, Finch's later, Eren's always. Stillness is when I wonder if every promise ever laid at my feet was doomed from the beginning.

And maybe that's why I don't trust words anymore. They sound holy in the moment. They glue you together, stitch you whole long enough to believe you might deserve to be kept. But words are fragile. Promises don't save you.

They leave.

But the world keeps spinning. 

So I keep moving. Hands busy. Body upright. Face steady. 

Which is why, hours later, I'm in the coffee shop, rag in hand, dragging it across the polished wood of an empty table. My body aches in quiet protest, muscles still sore from the accident. Every shift, every twist in my spine feels like a bruise blooming fresh. But pain is easier than silence. Pain means I'm still here, still moving. Still breathing.

It's strangely quiet for a Saturday. No clinking mugs, no laughter threading through the air, just low hum of the vents throughout the cafe. I let the rhythm of work carry me—wipe, straighten, breath. Again and again. 

The door jingles open, the sound cutting through the quiet. My head lists on instinct, smile already forming, the practiced greeting waiting on my tongue—until my eyes catch on the figure stepping inside.