Elian almost asked on the bus.
Almost.
Juni sat beside him, knees pulled in, humming softly under his breath as the city slid past the window. Everything about him said fine. Too fine.
Elian's gaze kept drifting to Juni's sleeve. He could ask now, he thought.
Casually. Gently.
Did you hurt your wrist? Is everything okay at home? The questions pressed against his tongue. He swallowed them down.
At school, Juni laughed at the right moments. He answered questions in class. He sketched in the margins of his notes like always. But Elian noticed the pauses.
The way Juni shifted when someone brushed past him in the hallway. The way he flinched—not at noise, but at sudden proximity. The way his smile arrived half a beat late, like it needed permission.
Nothing alarming. Everything unsettling.
They sat together at lunch. Juni nudged Elian's foot under the table. "You're staring," he said lightly.
Elian blinked. "Sorry."
Juni smiled. "You look like you're about to ask me something serious."
Elian hesitated.
Juni tilted his head. "If it's about homework, I promise I did my part."
Elian huffed a quiet laugh. The moment passed.
That afternoon, Juni came by the house again. Evelyn greeted him warmly, then returned to the kitchen, giving them space. She watched from the doorway as Juni perched on the edge of the couch, posture careful, like he was ready to leave at any moment.
She said nothing. Some truths needed time to surface.
Later, as they worked through assignments, Juni flexed his wrist unconsciously, a faint wince crossing his face before he masked it.
Elian's pencil froze. "…Does your hand hurt?" he asked.
Juni stilled. Then smiled. "I'm clumsy."
The answer was too quick. Elian nodded anyway.
That night, Elian lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He told himself he was respecting boundaries. He told himself Juni would speak when he was ready. But another thought crept in, quieter and heavier: What if he's waiting for me to ask?
The next morning, Elian found his mother in the kitchen, sipping tea.
"…Can I ask you something?" he said.
Evelyn looked up. "Of course."
"…How do you know when to push?" Elian asked. "When someone's hurting, but doesn't want to talk."
Evelyn considered this carefully. "You don't push," she said. "You make it clear the door is open."
Elian frowned. "And if they never walk through?"
Evelyn met his gaze.
"Then one day, when they do," she said gently, "they'll remember who waited without turning away."
At the bus stop later that morning, Juni arrived smiling, sleeves pulled low. Elian smiled back. He didn't ask. But he stayed close. For now, that was the only promise he knew how to keep.