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MidReal Story
The Boy I Want
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Chris
weary, and introspective. His eyes are haunted by the memories of his past, and he carries the weight of secrecy. Despite his initial resistance, he finds solace in your presence, allowing you to offer what little comfort you can. His breaths are shallow, and his heart beats rapidly, indicating the internal battle he fights daily.
You
gentle, and patient. Her actions are deliberate, carefully considering Chris's needs despite his warnings to keep distance. Her warmth and comfort are palpable as she attempts to ease his suffering. Her hand gently touches Chris's face, inviting him to accept her help, even when he hesitates.
I was standing in front of him.
He was guarded, eyes wary, shallow breaths, and heart pounding.
The dimly lit room with peeling wallpaper and faded curtains had unmade bed, clothes scattered on the floor, and some other stuff that I didn't notice at that time because all my attention was focused on him.
I sensed that he was struggling with some kind of conflict inside his mind.
His eyes were haunted by memories of the past, and his body language was defensive and complex.
I knew there were many things he wanted to say but couldn't say, and it was killing him slowly.
He was carrying the weight of secrecy.
After staring at each other for a few moments, I broke the silence, "Chris?"
He didn't respond; just gazed at me intensely.
Then I reached out to him, my hand moving slowly towards his face.
He flinched slightly and took a step back.
"Chris?"
My voice faltered.
I lowered my hand, still looking at him, but he didn't respond.
He was staring at me, his shoulders tense, his jaw clenched, and his eyes dark and haunted.
The room felt smaller now, as I took a careful step forward, being careful not to trip over the clothes that were scattered on the floor.
Outside, a car passed by, its headlights casting an eerie glow on the walls of the room.
Chris's face was illuminated for a moment, and I could see the mixture of emotions that were playing across it.
He looked like he was trapped in a nightmare and couldn't wake up.
I noticed that his hands were trembling slightly at his sides, and I felt a pang of sympathy for him.
The silence stretched on for a few moments longer, the only sound coming from the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room.
Then I reached out again, this time taking his hand in mine. He didn't pull away this time, and I could feel the coldness of his skin against my palm.
His grip tightened, and in that moment, I understood everything without a single word spoken.
His grip on my hand tightened as another car passed by outside, casting flickering shadows on the peeling walls of the room.
The curtains fluttered slightly in the draft, and I could see goosebumps rising on his exposed arms.
My thumb traced small circles on the back of his hand, feeling the tension in his muscles slowly begin to ease.
His breathing slowed to match mine, steady and deliberate.
I took a small step closer, and though his shoulders remained rigid, he didn't back away.
The old wooden floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I moved to stand directly in front of him.
Our joined hands hung between us, a fragile lifeline in the dimly lit room.
In that shared silence, I knew we were no longer alone in our struggles.