They learned to trust each other in ways that went beyond words.
Elara never imagined she'd feel so safe admitting something like, "There's no food at home." But with Zeon, there was no shame—only solutions. If she said she had nothing to eat, he didn't pity her. He didn't make her feel small. He just made a plan. Whether it was borrowing from someone, hustling an extra bit of cash, or skipping a meal himself, he made sure she was okay.
And he trusted her the same way. If he was struggling, he told her. If he was hungry, he didn't mask it behind pride. That was their bond—pure, raw honesty. A kind of closeness that didn't need dressing up. Their relationship wasn't built on filtered perfection or social media highlights. It was real-life struggle, real-life love.
By June, they had shared so much—stories, fears, laughter, secrets—that Elara started to see the details that made him who he was. One of those details was his quiet obsession with watches. He never said it loudly, but he spoke about building a collection like it was a dream he held close to his chest. A dream that got lost along the way.
So she decided to give him his first step back toward that dream.
She bought him a watch.
It wasn't expensive. It wasn't flashy. But it came from a place deeper than money—from a heart that had watched him sacrifice, survive, and still smile. She remembered the moment she gave it to him. His fingers trembled a little. He stared at it for a long time like it didn't feel real.
Then he cried.
Not from pain, but from something he couldn't explain. It was the first time she saw him cry—and it broke something open inside her. He told her it was the first present he'd ever received from someone who truly loved him. His mother lived in another country. Most of his life had been spent pretending he didn't need anyone. But in that moment, he needed her—and she was there.
It made her understand something: love isn't just about showing up when everything is perfect. It's about seeing what someone's been starved of—and feeding it.
He returned the gesture in his own way.
He started bringing her junk food. Not in grand portions, but in thoughtful selections. Her favorite chips. The chocolate she liked to eat when watching movies. The little sour worms that reminded her of childhood. He had watched her, paid attention, and remembered. That was love too—disguised as snacks and care.
It wasn't the food that made her melt. It was the way he remembered her cravings. The way he wanted to see her smile. The way his love spoke in actions, not just words.
They weren't rich in money, but they were rich in understanding.
Their relationship grew in the quiet spaces—between honest confessions, shared meals, and little gifts that meant everything. It wasn't flashy. It wasn't loud. But it was theirs. And that made it perfect in a way Elara had never known love could be.
Some nights, they'd fall asleep on the phone together. No long conversations, just knowing the other was on the other side of the line was enough. Sometimes they'd breathe in sync, and Elara would imagine what it would feel like to fall asleep beside him for real. That kind of peace couldn't be faked.
They started creating rituals that only made sense to them. Zeon would send her a voice note every morning, even if it was only five seconds long. She'd send him a picture of her outfit before school, just to hear him say, "You look beautiful." It was their way of being present, even from a distance.
There were days the world still weighed heavy on them. School deadlines. Family expectations. The shadows of their pasts. But in each other, they found breath. Found stillness. Found home.
Zeon wasn't afraid to call her out when she was closing off. "Don't disappear on me," he'd say gently. And she'd blink, realizing how quickly she slipped into survival mode. But instead of making her feel broken, he reminded her she was still healing—and that was okay.
Elara started to write again. Not in a diary. Just little notes on her phone, poems that spilled out at 2 a.m. about a boy who brought her snacks and watched her learn to trust again. About how love could sound like a voice note or taste like strawberry fizzers.
She told him things she never told anyone. Things about her childhood. Her fears of abandonment. Her dreams that always felt too big to say out loud. And he listened, not to fix—but to hold space.
She noticed the way he looked at her when she laughed. Like she was magic.
And maybe, just maybe, she was.
Because when you've been unloved for so long, finding someone who sees you—really sees you—can feel like a miracle.
And Elara was starting to believe… she deserved that miracle.