Emilio Francine De Ramos

A week later, life threw me another curveball. I was walking to the library between classes, headphones in, head down, when I heard my name from across the quad.

"Emil!"

I pulled out an earbud, blinking against the sunlight. And there he was, Silas, standing by a bench with that same crooked grin, like fate had stitched him into my day without asking.

"Silas?" My voice cracked in disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

He slung his backpack higher on his shoulder, casual as ever. "I told you. I go here. St. James University—home of overpriced tuition, undercooked cafeteria fries, and coffee shops that shut down before midnight."

"You're serious? You're... a student here?"

"Yep. Freshman. Mass Comm major." His grin widened, smug but playful. "Guess that means you're stuck with me."

I shook my head, still reeling. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Hey, you think I'd make up something as tragic as tuition debt?" He spread his hands dramatically. "I'm committed, Emil. Academically and... otherwise."

I groaned, already sensing trouble. "You're unbelievable."

"Thank you," he said, like it was a compliment.

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Silas threaded himself into my days with unnerving ease. He didn't ask if I had time for him; he just appeared. One evening after class, I spotted him leaning against the lecture hall wall, eyes closed, earbuds in, looking perfectly at home. The moment I stepped outside, his eyes snapped open.

"Hey, stranger," he said, smirking. "Funny seeing you here."

"You were waiting," I accused.

"Waiting? No. Loitering with style? Yes."

"Uh-huh." I tried to walk past him, but he fell in step beside me.

"What's for dinner? Convenient store meal again? Or do I get the honor of stealing you away for fries?"

I rolled my eyes. "Fries? Didn't you had fries for lunch earlier?"

"Don't underestimate the power of salt and oil," he shot back, slinging an arm casually over my shoulder.

I shrugged him off. "You're ridiculous."

"And you secretly love it," he said, laughing when I scowled.

At the library, I'd find him sprawled on a faded couch, a paperback open in his lap.

"Don't tell me you're stalking me here, too," I muttered one night, dumping my books onto the table.

"Me? Stalk? Please. I was here first." He lifted his book, showing me the cover. "Also, this is actually good. You should read it. We could form a two-person book club."

"I don't do book clubs."

"You just haven't been in mine."

Even at the convenience store, he'd show up, face pressed comically against the glass. I'd try to ignore him, scanning shelves, but he'd follow me down the aisle.

"You know, you could at least pretend you're happy to see me," he said, juggling a bag of chips.

"I'm working, Silas."

"Exactly. I'm supporting local business." He grinned. "See? Win-win."

No matter how many excuses I threw his way, Silas had this relentless way of showing up, like background music you couldn't tune out, equal parts irritating and strangely comforting.

Slowly, almost against my will, I began to let him in. At first, it was like an itch under the skin, this annoying tug that made me want to roll my eyes every time he sent a 'You alive?' text, especially if I didn't respond immediately. But that text would be followed by a goofy meme or some random photo of the day, a pigeon wearing a dog sweater, a street musician with a neon pink guitar, or once, a massive pretzel he'd somehow gotten free at a fair.

It was never demanding. Silas didn't ask for more than I was ready to give. He didn't pry, didn't push, didn't try to force his way past the walls I'd carefully built. He just... existed. Filling the spaces I'd thought were permanently empty, carving out a place where I'd long convinced myself there was none.

And somewhere in that process, it started feeling okay. Almost. In those quieter moments, when we sat together in silence, words forgotten and time stretching comfortably between us, I couldn't help but think of Yuwan. Yuwan, who used to make me feel like this before things became tangled and complicated, before Heather stepped in, blurring the lines of our friendship. It was a comparison I didn't want to make, one that felt almost unfair to Silas. Yet it lingered, haunting me like a shadow, a reminder of what I'd lost and a warning of what I could lose again.

"Hey, Emil." Silas's voice broke through my thoughts one afternoon, his tone softer than usual. "You know you don't have to keep everything bottled up, right? I'm here... whenever you're ready."

Caught off guard, I glanced up to find him watching me, his expression both open and impossibly patient. I wanted to dismiss it, to shrug it off as nothing, but Silas's gaze was steady, grounding in a way I hadn't realized I needed.

I swallowed, feeling the weight of unsaid words pressing at the edges of my mind. "It's not easy, Silas," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Letting people in... it's complicated."

"Maybe," he said, smiling faintly, "but that doesn't mean you can't try. I mean, I've stuck around this long. I'm not going anywhere, Emil. Not unless you ask me to."

It was a dangerous thought, letting myself believe that someone could make me feel whole again, that Silas could somehow fill the void that Yuwan's distance had left behind. But at that moment, with his steady gaze holding mine and the faint hint of his hand hovering just inches from mine, It was dangerous to think of Silas that way. Dangerous to let myself believe that someone could make me feel whole again.

One night, after a shift that seemed to drag forever, I stepped outside the convenience store, tugging my jacket tighter against the chill in the air. Silas was waiting for me again, leaning against the streetlight with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. His breath came in soft clouds, curling upward and disappearing into the night.

"Hey," he greeted, his voice low and familiar, like a favorite song playing in the background. "Wanna grab some food?"

I hesitated, instinct kicking in like always. My first thought was to say no. To protect myself. But the weight of loneliness pressed down hard on my chest, and I was tired, tired of being alone, tired of running from the small joys life tried to hand me. So, for once, I said yes.

We ended up at a tiny, run-down diner on the edge of town, the kind that always smelled like burnt coffee and syrup. Silas grinned as he ordered pancakes, insisting they were best eaten after midnight, and I opted for a mug of black coffee, even though I knew I'd regret it later. 

We sat in a corner booth with cracked vinyl seats, the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead lulling the space into an easy, intimate quiet.

"So," Silas said, cutting into his stack of pancakes with a plastic fork, "what seems to be bothering Mr. Emil De Ramos?"

I blinked, caught off guard by the question. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged, as if the answer didn't matter all that much. "I mean, you seem like someone carrying a lot, but you never talk about it."

I stirred my coffee, the warmth of the cup grounding me. "There's not much to say."

Silas chewed thoughtfully, watching me with an expression that was both gentle and curious. "You don't have to tell me everything, you know. I just... I like being around you. And I want to know you, like, the real you. Not just the guy who shows up to class half-asleep or sells me snacks at midnight."

His words hung in the air between us, soft but heavy. I stared into my coffee, struggling with the strange, sharp ache they left behind.

"You make it sound so easy," I muttered.

He leaned back in the booth, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe it is."

I exhaled slowly, the tension in my shoulders unraveling just a little. "It's not easy for me."

Silas didn't flinch or look disappointed. He just nodded, as if he understood more than I gave him credit for. "That's okay. I've got time."

There was something about the way he said it, so simple, so certain, that made me believe him.

As the weeks passed, Silas became more than just a familiar face in the crowd. He became... a constant. A fixture in my life. He was the text I didn't know I needed at 2 AM when the night felt too long. He was the friend who'd show up with fries after a bad day without needing an explanation. He filled the spaces Yuwan had left behind, but he didn't try to replace him. Silas was just Silas, reckless, funny, and endlessly patient. And somehow, that was enough.

There were nights when we'd sit on the steps outside the library, talking about nothing and everything. He'd tell me about his favorite books and his dream to travel the world, while I listened, sipping from my coffee and letting the words wash over me like waves lapping against the shore.

"You ever think about the future?" Silas asked one night, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"Not really," I admitted. "I'm more of a 'survive the day' kind of guy."

He laughed softly, a sound that made my chest feel lighter. "Yeah, I figured. But maybe one day, you'll let yourself think about more than just surviving."

I glanced at him, something warm and unfamiliar curling in my chest. "Maybe."

It wasn't love, not yet. I knew better than to let myself believe in something so fragile, so soon.

But it was something.

And in a life that had felt so empty for so long, something was more than enough. Ever since Yuwan left me, I felt like I could breathe again. Like the world wasn't pressing in on me quite so hard. Silas didn't fix me. He didn't erase the hurt or fill every crack Yuwan had left behind. But he made it easier to exist in the in-between spaces, the ones where loneliness had once lived. And maybe, just maybe, that was all I needed for now.