The art building emptied slowly.
Juni liked staying until the last footsteps faded, until the hum of conversation thinned into something quieter. He worked better then—when no one was watching, when nothing asked him to perform confidence he hadn't settled into yet.
He stood alone in the studio, charcoal smudged along his fingers, sleeves rolled up. His sketchbook lay open on the table, filled with studies from the day: faces caught mid-thought, hands half-curled, shadows where certainty should have been.
Outside, the city darkened.
The silence pressed in—not hostile, just familiar.
It reminded him of other rooms, other nights, when he'd learned to endure by staying still. When being quiet had been survival.
He shook the thought away and turned back to his work, refining a line until it softened into something truer.
His phone buzzed on the table.
Elian: Heading back soon. Don't stay too late.
Juni smiled despite himself and typed back.
Juni: Says the one who forgets time exists.
A moment passed.
Elian: Fair. Want company or quiet?
Juni hesitated. He stared at the half-finished sketch, at the version of himself captured there—focused, contained, alone.
Juni: Quiet for a bit. I'll come by later.
Elian: I'll be here.
The reassurance mattered more than the invitation.
Juni packed up carefully, wiping down the table, returning materials to their places. He took his time locking up, letting the building settle behind him.
Walking back toward student housing, he wondered—briefly, honestly—whether being loved by Elian was enough to steady him when everything else felt unfamiliar.
The answer wasn't immediate.
But when he arrived later that night, when Elian opened the door without surprise and pulled him into a quiet embrace, Juni felt something loosen in his chest.
Not certainty. But safety.
And for now, that was enough to keep going.