I close the door behind me quietly.
The house is calmer now.
Too calm, almost—like all the noise, the laughter, the singing… it stayed downstairs and didn't follow me up.
For a second, I just stand there.
Back against the door.
Breathing.
My chest still feels full in that strange way. Not heavy. Just… stretched. Like too many emotions tried to sit in one place at once and didn't fully settle.
"…that was a lot," I murmur.
"Yeah."
I glance up.
Niran's already there.
Leaning against the wall like he belongs in the shadows more than the room itself.
His hair falls messily over his forehead—soft strands brushing his eyes every time he tilts his head.
His shirt is still that same white one… except it isn't really white anymore.
Faint stains—dark, dried—spread across the fabric, uneven, like something that happened too fast to stop.
It hangs loose on him, untucked, the sleeves slightly rolled like he forgot halfway.
His trousers are too big.
They always are.
But somehow—
they still look like they belong to him.
Like this version of him—half-there, half-not—fits better than anything else.
He's watching me again.
Of course he is.
"…don't stare," I say, already moving toward my bed.
"I'm not staring."
"You are."
"I'm observing."
"…that's worse."
I tug at my shirt, pulling it over my head, tossing it onto the chair. The air feels cool against my skin, grounding.
I reach for something to change into—
when—
"…that wasn't my only gift, by the way."
I pause mid-motion.
Turn slowly.
"…what."
Niran straightens slightly.
And then—
he smiles.
Not his usual half-smirk.
Not teasing.
This one is—
bright.
Annoyingly charming.
Teeth just barely showing.
Eyes softer.
Like he's proud of himself.
"…you're going to regret that smile if this is stupid," I warn.
"Rude."
"…what is it."
He doesn't answer.
Instead—
he reaches into his pocket.
Dramatic.
Slow.
Like he's building suspense on purpose.
"…if this is something weird—"
"Relax."
"…I don't trust you."
"You should."
"I really shouldn't."
"Too late."
Then—
he pulls them out.
Two bracelets.
My breath catches slightly.
I recognize them instantly.
"…no way."
One—
is mine.
The one I made.
Messy threads, slightly uneven beads, the letters a little crooked—
N I R A N
…except the "A" is slightly tilted because I messed up and refused to redo it.
The other—
I've never seen finished.
But I know it.
The colors.
The pattern.
The way the thread loops tighter on one side.
He made that.
For me. Well he was forced to for a class, project but still.
"…you kept it," I say quietly.
Niran glances at the one with his name. "…you made this."
"…yeah."
"…it's bad."
"…wow."
"I'm kidding."
"…you better be."
A small pause.
Then he lifts both slightly.
"…I was going to give you this," he says, nodding toward mine. "And keep mine."
"…why didn't you?"
He shrugs lightly. "…didn't feel right back then."
"…and now?"
His gaze shifts to me again.
Steadier this time. "…now it does."
I swallow. "…why."
He steps closer.
Not rushed.
Just enough.
"…because I want something that stays," he says.
My fingers tighten slightly at my side.
"…you're literally not staying."
"…exactly."
That lands.
Soft.
But heavy.
He lifts the bracelets slightly between us. "…so this does."
A pause.
Then quieter— "…you wear mine."
"…and I keep yours?"
He shakes his head. "…no."
He takes a small step closer. "…you wear both."
I blink. "…both?"
"…yeah."
He holds them up again.
"…one is yours. One is mine."
A faint smile tugs at his lips.
"…you carry both."
"…that's… a lot."
"…you can handle it."
"…confident."
"I have to be."
I exhale softly. "…and you?"
He glances at his empty wrist.
Then back at me.
"…I can't wear anything."
A small shrug.
"…ghost problems."
I huff quietly. "…convenient excuse."
"Not really."
A beat.
Then softer—
"…so you wear it for me."
That—
does something.
I step closer.
Take the bracelet with his name first.
The slightly crooked one.
My fingers brush over it. "…you still have bad spelling."
"…it has character."
"…it has mistakes."
"…same thing."
A small smile slips out before I can stop it. "…shut up."
"Never."
Then he hands me the other one.
My name.
Neater.
Careful.
Like he took his time. "…why does yours look better."
"I'm talented."
"…you're annoying."
"I'm also right."
I shake my head.
Then— "…put it on."
He blinks. "…what?"
"…put it on."
I hold my wrist out. "…you said it matters, right?"
A pause.
Then—
he steps closer.
Closer than before.
His fingers brush my wrist.
Cool.
But still… there.
He slides the first bracelet on carefully.
Adjusts it.
Makes sure it sits right.
Not too tight.
Not too loose.
Then the second.
His movements slow down.
More careful than usual.
Like this—
matters more than he's saying.
When he's done—
he doesn't pull away immediately.
His hand lingers.
Holding my wrist up slightly.
Examining it.
"…good," he murmurs.
"…good?"
"…yeah."
He tilts my wrist slightly, like he's checking something invisible. "…this is good."
"…it's just a bracelet."
"…no."
His grip tightens just a little. "…it's not."
I look at him.
"…you're enjoying this."
"…a little."
"…a lot."
"…maybe."
I exhale.
Then softer— "…thanks."
He glances up. "…for what."
"…for this."
A pause.
Then— "…you're welcome."
Something in my chest tightens again.
Not bad.
Just—
too much.
I look down at the bracelets.
At both names.
Side by side.
"…it's a bit overwhelming," I admit.
Quiet.
Honest.
Niran's expression softens. "…yeah."
"…I don't think I've ever had something like this."
"…like what."
"…something that means this much."
He watches me for a second.
Then—
he nudges my shoulder lightly. "…don't get sentimental on me."
"…I'm not."
"You are."
"…I'm just saying."
"…dangerous territory."
"…you're the one who started it."
"Fair."
A pause.
Then—
he shifts closer again.
Not dramatic.
Just… there.
His shoulder brushing mine slightly.
"…you'll be fine," he says.
"…how do you know."
"…because you didn't run."
"…I still can."
"You won't."
"…confident again."
"…always."
I roll my eyes.
But I don't move away.
"…go to sleep," he adds after a moment, softer now.
"…yeah."
I sit down on the bed.
Still staring at the bracelets.
"…hey."
I glance up.
"…yeah?"
He nods toward my wrist.
"…don't take them off."
"…I won't."
"…good."
A small silence.
Then—
"…you're still staring," I mutter.
"I like looking."
"…weird."
"…you're used to it."
"…unfortunately."
He smiles.
And this time—
I don't tell him to stop.
Because for once—
I don't mind it.