The relief didn't come right away. It settled slowly, like dust after something had been knocked loose.
They didn't talk much on the bus ride home.
Not because there was nothing to say—but because everything felt tender, newly exposed. Juni sat close to the window, watching reflections slide across the glass. Elian stayed still beside him, aware of how easily the quiet could tip into something heavier if he pushed.
So he didn't. He waited.
They parted at the corner as usual. Juni paused before turning away. "…Why did you say it like that?" he asked.
Elian frowned slightly. "Like what?"
"He's my friend," Juni said. His voice was careful. "You didn't joke. You didn't soften it."
Elian considered the moment again—the hallway, the pause, the way the words had landed.
"Because I meant it," he said simply.
Juni nodded, but his expression didn't ease.
That evening, Juni lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, replaying Elian's voice in his head.
He's my friend.
The words warmed him—and scared him.
Being chosen openly felt different from being chosen quietly. It felt heavier. Like something that could be taken away.
The next morning, Juni arrived at the bus stop early. Elian was already there. Juni sat beside him, hands clasped tightly in his lap.
"…Do you ever worry," Juni asked softly, "that choosing someone makes you responsible for them?"
Elian turned toward him. "I worry about hurting people," he said. "Not about caring."
Juni swallowed.
"…I don't want to be something you have to defend." Elian's brow furrowed.
"You're not." Juni shook his head. "Yesterday—you stood up for me. That's not nothing."
Elian was quiet for a moment. Then: "I didn't do it because I had to."
Juni looked at him.
"I did it because I didn't want you to feel alone."
Juni's breath hitched. He looked away quickly, blinking.
"…That's the part that scares me," he admitted. "When people make space for me, I'm always waiting for it to close."
Elian nodded slowly. "I can't promise it never will," he said honestly. "But I can promise I won't pretend it doesn't exist."
Juni let out a shaky laugh. "…You're really bad at lying."
Elian smiled faintly.
They boarded the bus together. Sat together. Nothing dramatic followed. But Juni rested his arm lightly against Elian's sleeve, grounding himself in the contact. Elian stayed exactly where he was.
In the space between words—between fear and trust—something fragile held.
And for now, that was enough.