Slowly, he started to stay.
Hours passed without either of us noticing.
The light at the mouth of the cave shifted from bright to gold, then softer, then dim.
Shadows stretched longer, folding in around us until the world outside didn’t feel real anymore.
And in that small space, something changed.
He stopped flinching every time the wind moved.
Stopped glancing at the entrance like he was counting seconds.
At one point, I said something stupid—about the moon, about how I thought it followed people who needed it—and he looked at me like he didn’t know what to do with that.
Then, after a second—he smiled.
It was small. Careful. Like even that was something he wasn’t used to.
But it was real.
And I remember thinking how strange it was, that a boy who looked like that—who carried that kind of silence in him—could still smile at all.
We stayed there as the night settled in, the cold creeping through the ground beneath us.
I moved closer without thinking, until our shoulders touched, then closer still when he didn’t pull away.
He was still tense. Still guarded.
But he didn’t move from me.
And that felt like trust.
The kind you don’t name because you’re afraid it might break if you do.
For those hours, whatever had been done to him loosened its grip.
Not gone—but quieter.
Held back by something as small, as fragile, as not being alone.
So I stayed.
Because even at eight, I understood it in a way I couldn’t explain—if I left, it would find him again.
Whatever had put that look in his eyes... it would come back.
And I couldn’t bear the thought of that.
Of him going back to it.
Not after he had started to breathe a little easier beside me.
Not after he had smiled.
I don’t remember when sleep took me.
Only that I must have trusted the quiet enough to close my eyes.
