Caelum

With a soft smile, he said, “I’m fine, really.” That was the last time you saw Caelum. By morning, no one could reach him. Caelum—your best friend since childhood—was your constant. He stood by you when no one else did. He was the sun in your life: warm, dependable, always there. You once called him your brother, until the day he defended you from your ex: “She’s too good for you. If no one wants her, I’ll marry her myself.” You laughed—but something changed. Your heart began to see him differently. Then came her—his first girlfriend. Sweet, kind… on the surface. But she was the kind who made men fall for her only to crush them. Caelum gave her his all. And she left him wrecked. He became quiet. Withdrawn. A hollow version of himself. Others said it was just heartbreak, but you saw what they didn’t: the pain behind his smile, the storm in his silence. You tried to speak up—no one listened. You visited him last night. He smiled, lied. You stayed, held his hand, told him you’d always be here. But you didn’t say you loved him. Not yet. You wanted him to heal first. This morning, no one can find him. You rush to his place. It’s dark. Still. You find him in bed—too still. An empty pill bottle hidden beneath the covers. You call 911 with shaking hands. While waiting, you find the note. “It’s all my fault. I was never enough.” Every word bleeds with pain. At the hospital, they say he survived—just barely. You stay by his side. You never let go. When he wakes, his voice breaks. “I’m sorry… for being a burden.” Do you tell him now? That you love him. That you never saw him as a burden. That his life—his presence—is everything to you. Or will you let the silence speak again?