LATE NIGHTS

~~LATE NIGHTS~~

~~ALICIA~~

The rain starts out slowly. Not the aggressive kind that rattles windows, but the slow steady fall that sounds like fingers tapping gently against glass. Outside, the world feels far away- blurred by darkness and water. Inside the room, the candle remains lit, the little flame dancing weakly every time the wind slips through the cracks of the window frame. I sit cross-legged on my bed feeling shy all of a sudden with my arms wrapped loosely around my body. Xavier leans back against his mattress, seated on the ground, legs stretched out, hands clasped together as though he’s afraid to move them. The power is still out and honestly at this point, I’m not sure we have any hope of seeing light till tomorrow. Secretly, I don’t really want the light to come back now.

Weirdly, the candle light softens everything. His sharp edges, his rigid posture. Even the silence and the darkness feel warmer-less threatening. The next thing I know, my body sits up slowly, like I’m being controlled, finding a comfortable space on my bed before speaking slowly, “Do you believe people end up where they’re meant to be,” I ask quietly, “or do you think we just … settle for what happens?” He takes his time to really think about the question.

I notice the slight pause in his movements and I immediately start to regret why I asked the question when he doesn’t answer immediately. The rain grows louder, heavier, filling the space with a little bit of tension. I’m about to tell him he doesn’t need to answer it when he lets out a little cough. “I used to think everything had a reason, “he finally says. “Now I think sometimes things just happen, and we’re forced to survive them.” I nod slowly trying to digest the weight of his words, “That sounds like something someone hurt would say.” A small smile tugs at his lips, “You’re not wrong.” I hesitate then ask;

~~XAVIER~~

“What scares you the most?” she asks, the candle flickers. I let out a long exhale through my nose, giving her subtle signs that her questions were hitting too close to home. “Failing the people who depend on me”. Her brows knit together like she’s analysing my answer, “You mean your siblings?” she asks. “And my mum” I add, slowly. “They look at me like I’m solid. Like I won’t break. I don’t know what happens if they ever realize I’m just … guessing most of the time.” “It is.”

Rain streaks down the window in uneven lines. “What about you?” he asks. “What scares you? She swallows. “Losing control.” He tilts his head. “Of what?”, “Of my life,” she says softly. “Of my emotions. Of people.” She stares at the candle instead of him. “Everyone says I’m strong. Organized. Responsible. But the truth is… if I don’t hold things tightly, I feel like they’ll disappear.” Xavier studies her face, the way the light catches in her eyes. “Did something disappear before?” he asks gently. Her throat tightens. “My dad,” she says. “One moment he was here. The next, he wasn’t. No warning. No goodbye. Just… gone.” The rain feels louder now. “I’m sorry,” Xavier says, his voice low, sincere. She shrugs weakly. “I don’t talk about him much. If I do, it feels too real. Like I might fall apart.” “You won’t,” he says. She looks at him then. “How do you know?” “Because you’re still standing,” he replies. “Even with the weight you carry.” Her lips part slightly, caught off guard by his certainty.

They sit in silence again, the candle flame dancing between them like a fragile agreement. “Can I ask something else?” she says. “Yeah.” “Do you ever wish you could just… stop being strong?” Xavier laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “Every day.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “People think strength means not feeling tired. But real strength is waking up tired and still going.” She nods slowly. “I think that’s true. The rain shifts, heavier now, drumming against the roof. “What makes you cry?” he asks suddenly. Her breath catches. “That’s… very direct.” “Sorry.” “No,” she says quickly. “It’s okay.” She thinks for a moment. “Goodbyes. Songs that remind me of my childhood. And… feeling replaceable.” His jaw tightens. “You’re not.” She gives a small, sad smile. “You don’t know that.” “Maybe,” he admits. “But I know what it feels like to believe it.” The candle crackles softly, “What makes you cry?” she asks. He looks embarrassed. I don’t… often.”

“That wasn’t the question.” He exhales. “Seeing my siblings sleep. Because I don’t know how long I’ll be able to protect that innocence.” Something twists painfully in her chest. “That’s a lot for one person,” she whispers. “I don’t have a choice.” “You do,” she says gently. “You’re allowed to be human.” Their eyes meet again. This time, neither looks away. “If you could change one thing about yourself,” she asks, “what would it be?” His answer comes instantly. “I’d stop pretending I don’t need help. Her chest tightens. “And you?” he asks. “I’d stop believing that being loved means being perfect.” The rain softens, slowing again. “That’s… really honest,” he says. “So is yours.” Another pause. “Do you think,” she says quietly, “that people can really see each other? Like truly?” Xavier studies her face, the shadows, the vulnerability she rarely allows. “I think,” he says slowly, “most people don’t try. They’re too busy protecting themselves.” “And you?” she asks. “I’m trying,” he admits. Her breath stutters.

The candle flame bends suddenly as a breeze slips through the window. They both notice it at the same time. Alicia reaches forward to steady the candle. Their fingers brush. Electric. Brief. Unmistakable. She pulls back immediately. “I—sorry,” she says. “It’s okay,” he replies, just as quick. They sit back in their places, hearts beating louder than the rain. “This doesn’t change anything,” she says after a moment. “We’re still just roommates.” “Yeah,” he agrees. “Just… two people sharing space.” “And honesty,” she adds. “And honesty,” he echoes. The candle burns low. When they finally lie down that night, the rain continues to fall. And though neither of them says it aloud, both of them know—Something important has begun.