Rafe Cameron Imagines

Hello, Darkness, My Old Friend🤍

It always hit him at night.

The silence. The weight. The emptiness that showed up like clockwork.

Rafe sat on the edge of your bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it had all the answers. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his wrists. His fingers were red from pulling at the seams. He hadn't spoken in almost thirty minutes.

You didn't push him.

You just stayed close. Lying sideways on the mattress, chin propped on your hand, eyes on him — not asking, not expecting. Just there.

He finally broke the silence.

"I think it's happening again."

Your chest tightened, but you kept your voice soft. "The fog?"

He nodded.

And then, quieter: "It's been here since I was thirteen."

You moved closer, sitting up, your hand brushing his. "What's it telling you tonight?"

He swallowed. "That nothing really matters. That I'm not built to be okay for long. That the second I stop talking or smiling or making people laugh, I disappear."

"You're still here," you said gently. "Even when you're quiet. Even when you're low."

He looked at you, something broken in his expression. "I've spent most of my life convincing everyone I'm fine."

"I know."

"They believed me," he said. "That's the fucked-up part."

You took his hand in both of yours, slow and steady. "You don't have to convince me."

Rafe looked down at your fingers wrapped around his, breathing shallow.

"When I got diagnosed," he said, "my dad told me not to tell anyone. Said it made me look weak. Said I should push through it, act normal, tough it out."

You felt heat rise in your chest, but you didn't interrupt.

"So I did," Rafe went on. "I smiled more. Got louder. Started picking fights and throwing parties and doing anything to feel something that wasn't that."

You leaned your head against his shoulder. "That wasn't weakness. That was survival."

He let out a breath that sounded more like a choke. "I think Sarah always knew. Even when she didn't say it."

You nodded. "She loves you."

"Yeah," he whispered. "I know she does. Even if she doesn't know how to say it right now. Even if I've ruined too many things between us."

"She still loves you," you said again. "And I do too."

He didn't respond right away. Just sat there, head tilted slightly, like he was letting that sentence soak in. Like it didn't compute right away — like his brain was fighting it.

Then: "You're the only person I trust with this."

You turned your head. "With what?"

"This part of me."

You didn't flinch. "I know."

He finally looked you in the eye.

"You don't think I'm a mess?"

"I think you've been carrying too much for too long. I think you've been surviving without air."

His bottom lip trembled, just barely.

"And I think," you continued, "that even if you fall apart, I'll still be here."

Rafe didn't cry. Not really. But his shoulders dropped a little. His hands loosened. His body, always so tense, softened just enough to let you in.

He whispered, "It's like I can't escape it. Like it finds me even when I'm happy. Like I'll have a good day with you, and then five minutes later, it's just... darkness again."

"Hello darkness," you murmured, voice low, "my old friend."

Rafe let out the smallest laugh. "That's morbid."

You shrugged. "Fits though."

"Yeah," he admitted. "It does."

You kissed his shoulder. "But you don't have to face it alone anymore."

He looked at you, eyes full of something quiet and scared and grateful. "Promise?"

You nodded. "Always."

And for the first time that night, Rafe leaned his head against yours, pulled your joined hands into his lap, and whispered, "Thank you. For not being afraid of the dark."

You smiled, pressing your forehead to his.

"I don't have to be," you said softly. "Because I've got you in it."