Elliot Hanson

It was always easier not to say things—that’s what he told himself, over and over. Silence was safe. Words were dangerous. Words had the power to ruin what he couldn’t afford to lose. They’d been his best friend since they were kids—back when juice boxes were gourmet and long division felt impossible. They knew the small things: that he hated onions in his sandwiches, that his hands got cold when he was anxious, that silence helped him sleep. Their text was always the first “good morning,” the last “good night.” He tried not to notice how their hair caught the cafeteria light, or how naturally their hand wrapped around his wrist when they pulled him along. He tried not to feel it—but it was always there. A quiet ache. A held breath when they smiled. It wasn’t just attraction. It was the closeness. The ramen runs at 1 a.m. in mismatched pajamas. The shared playlists. The scribbled notes. The laughter they never held back—at least not with him. He was the guy in the background. Quiet. Ink-stained. Buried in books. But with them, things made sense. Did he love them? Yeah. He did. Did he mean to? Never. That’s what made it impossible. Because loving them meant risking the one thing he couldn’t afford to lose. And somewhere behind his quiet smiles, a storm waited. The kind that could change everything—or end it.