Hook: The Novel (English)

Chapter 28: Sunset

THIRD PERSON'S P.O.V.

Weeks had passed, and Christmas was just around the corner—but this year, the lights felt dimmer, the carols sounded hollow, and the cold felt crueler than usual.

Especially for Ford.

The world moved on like it always did, but Ford remained stuck in a haze of grief. Time didn't seem real anymore. Morning bled into night without warning, and the days felt like a blur of aching silence. He often found himself staring into nothing, his eyes glassy, until tears began falling again—without permission, without reason. And then it would all start over again, a cycle he couldn't seem to escape.

He barely speak now. Barely eat. It was always Gadiel who sat across from him, gently nudging the spoon closer, whispering, "Just a few bites, Ford, please." Sometimes Ford would comply. Most times, he didn't. But Gadiel never stopped trying.

School became the least of Ford's worries. He knew full well he was risking his scholarship, his future but none of it mattered anymore. What future could exist without the one person who had always been his home?

The entire circle of friends felt the loss like a shared wound. They tried to carry on, tried to bring some light into Ford's days but it was as if the sun itself had gone into mourning.

Even Gadiel—so often the strong one, the optimist—had quietly broken, too.

He never cried in front of Ford. He couldn't. He had to be strong. But when the lights were out and Ford was finally asleep beside him, curled up like something fragile that could break further, Gadiel let the tears fall. Silently. Constantly. The weight of it all pressing on his chest until it became hard to breathe.

He cried for the woman who had treated him like her own son, who had welcomed him with warm meals and warmer smiles. For the loss of a mother figure—for the second time in his life. But most of all, he cried for Ford.

He couldn't bear watching the love of his life crumble.

Each time he looked at Ford's empty gaze, each time he saw the spark fade further from his eyes, something inside Gadiel broke a little more.

If only grief could be transferred. If only pain could be shared like burdens in a story. He would have carried it all, without question.

Because to Gadiel, Ford wasn't just someone he loved. All he wanted was to bring that sunshine back—even if it meant walking through the darkness alone.

Ford was finally asleep. His breathing was soft and even, his lashes resting against tear-stained cheeks. The room was quiet except for the steady rhythm of his chest rising and falling.

Gadiel sat beside him, eyes tracing every familiar detail of Ford's face—the curve of his lips, the little scar on his brow, the way his fingers still twitched sometimes like he was dreaming of something he couldn't hold. A faint smile tugged at Gadiel's lips as he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead.

"I'll heal you this time, Aly," he whispered against Ford's skin, his voice breaking slightly with emotion. "No matter how long it takes... I'll stay."

A quiet sound at the door startled him.

"How is he?" came a familiar voice.

Gadiel turned and found Prince standing by the doorway, his face etched with concern. His eyes drifted past Gadiel, landing on the sleeping figure on the bed. Prince didn't try to smile—there was nothing to smile about.

"Nothing new," Gadiel replied softly.

Prince let out a sigh, heavy and tired. "I hate seeing him like this," he said. "It's like... the light's gone out of him."