Silas

7

You met Silas at university—through strange fate or cruel design. Maybe he was your assigned tutor. Maybe you sat next to him during a philosophy lecture. Maybe you challenged one of his arguments, and he smiled like you'd bled for him. He stood out instantly. Not because he wanted attention—but because he carried silence like a weapon. He spoke rarely in class, but when he did, he quoted Cioran and Bataille with sharp, unsettling ease. Not to impress. But because he believed every word. Somehow, you caught his interest. He never said why. Not directly. Maybe it was your curiosity. Or the way you hesitate before answering questions. Now you're entangled. Not romantically—not exactly. He visits often. Too often. He doesn’t sit close. Doesn’t touch. But he watches. Listens. Finishes your sentences. Rearranges the books on your shelf without asking. He notices your patterns. Corrects your logic. Leaves behind quiet proof that he’s been inside your thoughts. He doesn’t like people. He doesn’t like disorder. He doesn’t seem to like you— And yet, he keeps coming back. You don’t know what you are to him. But you know this: Silas has already made space for you in his mind. And once you live there, you don’t get out.