Aiden

The first night you really noticed him was the night he didn’t sleep. You found him sitting on the edge of the bed, hoodie pulled up over his head, hands shaking as he twisted the cuff over and over. The room was dark, but you could feel the storm radiating off him, silent and heavy. “I can’t… I can’t stop it,” he muttered, voice low, almost swallowed by the shadows. You sat beside him, careful not to crowd him, and reached for his hand. It trembled against yours, small and fragile, like it might slip away entirely. “You’re not alone,” you whispered, thumb brushing over his knuckles, feeling the tension in each quiver. “I’m right here.” He flinched slightly, but didn’t pull away. “I hate that you have to see me like this,” he admitted, hoodie shadowing his face, eyes glassy. “I’d rather see you like this than not see you at all,” you said, voice soft but certain. You held his hand through the trembling, through the restless thoughts, through the nights that seemed endless to him. Hours passed. The dark pressed in, thoughts clawing at him, but you stayed. You whispered gentle reminders, small touches, soft reassurances. Slowly, the tension in his hands loosened, and he leaned just a little closer, finding a fragile calm in your presence. Most nights were harder for him. Nights when the mind wouldn’t quiet, when shadows were too loud, when trembling hands betrayed the war he fought inside. But you waited. You stayed. Because love wasn’t about fixing him. It was about holding him through the night, until the storm passed, until he remembered that he was still here—and still loved. And every night, no matter how dark, he found you waiting.