Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

[ DAY EIGHT ; 6 days remaining. 144 hours remaining. 8,640 minutes remaining. 518,400 seconds remaining. ] 

The second week began with absence.

Not the kind Saparata had grown accustomed to over the past seven days—not the absence created by silence, by restraint, or by words left unsaid—this was different, when he woke that morning, Fluixon wasn't home.

Saparata noticed it immediately.

The apartment felt... still. There was no sound of cupboard doors opening in the kitchen, no absentminded humming from the shower, and no slippers dragging lazily across the wooden floor. Furthermore, the bedroom door stood open, and the bed had already been made. When he walked into the kitchen, a mug also sat in the sink, already washed.

Lastly, the little sunflower plant had been watered, alongside it were the bouquet of sunflowers and hyacinths that had fresh water in the vase.

Fluixon had been awake for some time, but he wasn't there.

He knows he shouldn’t have, but Saparata searched the apartment anyway—living room, balcony, spare room, bathroom—nothing.

A strange panic settled beneath his ribs—he reached instinctively for his phone before stopping himself. What exactly was he planning to do? Call him? Tell him to come home? Explain why he'd suddenly become worried after pretending Fluixon didn't exist for an entire week?

His hand slowly lowered, then he noticed a folded note resting beneath the flower vase.

He unfolded it.

Went out for a bit.

Don't worry.

I'll be back later.

There was no signature of Fluixon (with Saparata’s surname) on it. Though, I guess there didn't need to be one, after all, it was just a simple note to explain Fluixon’s sudden absence. 

Saparata stared at the handwriting until the words blurred—Don't worry—as if Fluixon still believed Saparata worried about him. As if that had ever changed.

—

Work should have distracted him, but of course it didn't. Every break between photographs became another glance toward his phone—no messages. 

Every pause in conversation became another thought: ’where did he go?’, After all, he remembered—with a sickening sense of guilt—that Fluixon had hardly left the apartment since returning: he’d gone grocery shopping, bought the little sunflower plant, walked around the neighborhood—nothing more.

One thing Saparata eventually concluded was that perhaps, today, Fluixon Aculon simply wanted to breathe. To get away from a home that had become suffocating.

Saparata couldn't blame him.

—

During lunch, one of the newer models slid into the seat beside him, she smiled brightly. "I finally get to work with the Saparata Theria." she exclaimed like a rookie usually would with a veteran.

Saparata simply offered her a polite smile that he had perfected years ago. "It's nice to meet you."

With that, she introduced herself, speaking enthusiastically about campaigns she'd admired and magazine covers she'd kept since she was younger.

Saparata listened, and answered when appropriate—nothing more, because with all honesty, even way back before, Saparata never bathed himself in the glory of having hundreds of beautiful people to work with who also admired him, because why would he, when the most beautiful person in his eyes were always waiting for him at their little home?

Saparata didn’t notice that lunch ended as his thoughts slowly occupied him, he only got out of the daze when she laughed lightly. "Y’know, I always heard you were hard to approach."

He looked at her, puzzled. "Really?"

"Yeah—but don’t get me wrong! I simply heard recently that you seem..." She searched for the right word. "...far away."

‘Far away.’

The description lingered with him long after she walked off, because in a memory from the back of his mind, he remembered being referred to as a model that was the embodiment of sunshine; for a split fraction of a second, Saparata believed that that description wouldn’t have changed, if everything that had happened in his life ceased to exist.

—

By the time he returned home, evening had already settled across the city.

The apartment lights were on, which indicated Fluixon was back, he was sat on the couch with a blanket over his lap, absentmindedly flipping through television channels without actually watching any of them.

When the front door opened, he looked up. "Oh." His smile appeared automatically, but faltered almost just as quickly. "You're home."

Saparata didn’t pay the greeting with any mind while removing his shoes.

Neither of them moved.

Eventually, Fluixon spoke again. "...I visited the bookstore today."

Saparata paused, though if Fluixon looked hard enough, you could see his shoulders visibly sag in relief; that was one overconsuming thought finally answered in his head. "I stayed longer than I meant to."

"I thought maybe you'd call." He added, the words weren't accusatory. They were observational. Matter-of-fact.

When no answer came, Fluixon smiled to himself. "...I guess that was silly."

Saparata quietly carried his work bag into the bedroom.

Dinner was almost entirely silent, not because Fluixon had run out of things to say, but because by this point, he had stopped trying to fill the silence.Saparata found that infinitely more frightening. 

Halfway through the meal, Fluixon suddenly spoke. "...Can I ask you one last question?"

Saparata stopped eating, but Fluixon continued anyway. "If you don't answer..."

A pause.

"...I'll stop asking."

Saparata’s chest tightened.

 Fluixon rested his utensils neatly across his bowl. "I've been thinking…" His eyes remained fixed on the table. "...You've always been around beautiful people."

The sentence came so unexpectedly that Saparata frowned without realizing it, though he was able to erase the expression off his face before Fluixon noticed it.

"Models." Another pause, albeit much more longer this time. "Actors… Photographers… Designers..."

A faint laugh. "...You've always had coworkers prettier than me."

Saparata could feel his heart hammering as he slowly came to a realization on where Fluixon was going with this.

"I used to joke about it." Fluixon smiled faintly. "Remember?"

Of course he remembered. Fluixon used to laugh whenever fashion campaigns paired Saparata with another model.

"Don't fall in love at work." Fluixon berated him. 

Saparata merely smiled sickeningly sweet at his borderline pouty expression. "How could I, when I already fell in love during my teenage years?" He reminded him.

Fluixon stayed silent at that, before he quietly muttered, "...Good answer."

Back then,  It had always been a joke, but now, the statement felt humorless. "I've been wondering." Fluixon's voice grew quieter.

 "If maybe..." He hesitated for a long time. "...there's someone else."

Everything inside Saparata went still.

"I know." Fluixon laughed awkwardly. "It sounds ridiculous."

Another pause.

"You would've told me."

Would he? In different circumstances, he definitely would, but it’s so hard to be sure about anything at this point. Not when right now, Saparata wasn't even allowed to tell him he loved him.

"I just..." Fluixon looked down at his hands. "...I can't think of another reason."

Silence.

"You don't even look at me anymore." The words landed softly. That somehow made them hurt more. "If you met someone..." He forced another smile. "...I think I'd understand."

No, he wouldn't. 

"I'd hate it." A tiny laugh escaped him. "And truth be told, I'd probably cry." He rubbed at one eye as though trying to make light of the statement.

"But..." His smile faded completely. "...I'd understand it, eventually."

Saparata's breathing became painfully slow. Around this point, he wanted to throw the contract and the bargain he agreed to into the sea, so that it could be eaten by sea monsters and be forgotten forever. 

He also wanted to hunt the stranger down, and tell them to take anything else—his career, his reputation, his awards, his campaigns. Everything.

Anything but this.

But the thought dissolved quickly when Saparata realized that no, none of what he has now would ever weigh as precious and heavy as Fluixon’s life. 

So instead, He stood up, carried his dishes to the sink, and washed them in complete silence.

Behind him, Fluixon quietly whispered, "...I see." Like he’s slowly figuring out a lot of realizations that didn’t need to be realized.

—

The apartment remained dark long after midnight, and because sleep refused to come, Saparata decided to wander into the living room for a glass of water.

He stopped, when he caught something from the corner of his eye.

Fluixon had fallen asleep on the couch again. The television displayed nothing but a black screen, with the remote rested loosely in one hand.

Saparata approached carefully, looking at anything but at Fluixon’s sleeping figure. The blanket had slipped halfway to the floor. He picked it up, draped it gently over Fluixon once more, before visibly flinching at himself when he realized that if he lingered too closely and too longingly, then the rules that binded him might curse this precious moment. 

 When he quickly stepped back, he almost bumped into the coffee table, and that’s when he spots something—Fluixon's phone. The screen had almost timed out, but he could still see the last contact Fluixon messaged, and when he did, he felt his blood physically run cold.

Cynikka Aculon. 

Saparata looked away immediately. He didn't need to see anything else, after all, he knew Fluixon. When something hurt deeply enough, he always sought out the one person who had understood him his entire life.

His twin sister.

A strange mixture of relief and dread settled inside Saparata; Relief, because Fluixon wasn't alone, and he would never be alone, as long as he had his sister with him; Dread, because Cynikka had buried her brother, she had mourned him, and once Cynikka finds out that dead brother had texted him and might even visit her… 

…What would Saparata possibly say when she demanded an explanation?

He already knew the answer: Nothing, He would stand there in silence just as he had with Jophiel. Only this time, he doubted silence would be enough.

Before returning to bed, Saparata looked toward the dining table. One sunflower petal had finally fallen. It rested beside the vase—bright yellow against dark wood.

He picked it up carefully. Then placed it back beside the bouquet. Some things deserved to remain where they had fallen.

Six days remained, but things never waited too long before they already showed signs of withering. 

—

[ DAY NINE; 5 days remaining. 120 hours remaining. 7,200 minutes remaining. 432,000 seconds remaining. ] 

The apartment was empty again when Saparata woke, although this time, he already had a hunch on where Fluixon might have gone—or at least, he thought he did.

The contact he saw from the previous night lingered relentlessly in his mind. If there was anyone Fluixon would turn to after spending eight days searching for answers that never came, it would be her.

They had always been inseparable, after all—even as adults, even after moving into different homes, and even after work pulled them into separate lives.

There were some bonds that distance simply couldn't weaken.

Saparata understood that better than anyone. He had admired it way back then, when he often went to Fluixon’s quiet home, that always almost seemed to louden up whenever his sister was there with him.

Yet right now, their bond was something he couldn’t admire, but instead fear, because he knew it’d be something that would put a tremendous wrench into his plans.

—

He found another note beneath the flower vase.

Going to see Cynikka today.

I haven't talked to her in a while.

She'll probably scold me for disappearing.

I'll be home tonight.

Saparata closed his eyes, his fingers tightened around the edge of the paper, he couldn’t even linger at the fact that Fluixon’s notes no longer held his signature, because he was busy dreading over the multiple horribly scenarios that could occur. 

Cynikka wouldn't just scold him. She would—his thoughts stopped there.

He couldn't bear to finish them.

—

The drive to work passed in a blur, he couldn't remember a single traffic light, or what songs played on the radio, he couldn't even remember arriving at the studio.

He simply appeared there, his body moved through the day while his mind remained somewhere else.

With Fluixon. With Cynikka. And with the impossible conversation waiting for him.

—

Around noon, his phone vibrated, he barely glanced at the screen before recognizing the name.

Cynikka.

His stomach dropped. For several seconds, he simply stared, before his rigid fingers moved to hesitantly open it.

Cynikka:

Where are you?

He replied almost immediately.

Saparata:

At work.

The typing indicator appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.

Cynikka:

Come pick him up.

Nothing else, and with that, Saparata didn't hesitate. He informed his manager that a family emergency had come up, and no one questioned him, not after everything that had happened.

—

The drive to Cynikka's apartment felt endless, every red light became another minute stolen, and every slow-moving car became another obstacle. By the time he finally parked outside the building, his pulse pounded so loudly he could barely hear himself think.

The elevator ride was worse—too quiet, too slow, too much time to imagine what waited beyond the doors.

When he reached her apartment, the front door was already open.

Cynikka stood there. She looked… Exhausted—not physically, but emotionally. As though she had cried until there was nothing left.

The moment she saw Saparata, her expression hardened. "You finally came." Her voice was frighteningly calm.

Saparata lowered his gaze. Behind her, he heard Fluixon laugh softly. "I told you he'd come."

The sound nearly broke him. "He always comes." Fluixon sounded so sure of himself, Saparata almost wondered what on earth they could have possibly talked about for Fluixon to reassure Cynikka of something that all of them knew would happen.

Cynikka closed her eyes, just briefly. As if hearing her brother's voice hurt too much. "Flux," she said quietly. "Can you give us a minute?"

Fluixon tilted his head curiously at that, but ultimately nodded. "Sure." He hummed, then his footsteps disappeared deeper into the apartment as a door closed gently.

Silence settled between the Saparata and Cynikka, the type of silence Saparata couldn’t process because in a blink of an eye, Cynikka approached him and raised her hand.

Then, Cynikka slapped him.

The sound of the hit echoed through the hallway, and it was strong enough to tilt Saparata’s head to the side, but even with that, he didn't move; he didn't raise a hand to his cheek, he simply accepted it.

Tears welled in her eyes almost immediately afterward.

"I hate you." The words came out broken. "I hate you so much."

Saparata remained silent.

"What..." Her voice trembled. "...what did you do?"

She stepped closer and immediately grabbed the front of his shirt. "My brother died."

Every word shook. "I identified his body."

Another.

"I stood beside his coffin."

Another.

"I watched them bury him." She looked toward the closed bedroom door. "And now he's sitting in my apartment asking why I looked like I had just seen a ghost when he appeared at my front doorstep.”

Saparata felt every ounce of air leave his lungs.

"He doesn't remember anything." Her laugh was hollow. "He thinks I'm just being emotional."

She wiped angrily at her tears. "And because of that, he hugged me." She sobbed, and Saparata knew why, because between the twins, physical affection was something that was rare than a blue moon for them. 

Her voice cracked completely. "He hugged me and asked if something was wrong."

Saparata couldn't breathe.

"I couldn't even hug him back properly." She looked at him with a grief so profound that he wished she would slap him again instead.

Anything but that look.

"...Because I kept thinking..." Her shoulders shook. "...if I held him too tightly..."

"...he'd disappear."

Silence swallowed the hallway.

Cynikka stared at him—waiting, demanding, and practically begging silently for an explanation, just as Saparata had predicted.

"Tell me." She asked sharply, despite the obvious cracks in her voice. 

He couldn't.

"What is happening?" She pushed further, her tone getting louder, but also visibly quieter when she realized that Fluixon might hear her.

He couldn't.

"Why is he alive?" She asked anyway. 

He couldn't.

"What did you do?" 

Saparata’s jaw clenched, his nails dug into his palms. "I..." The word barely escaped.

Cynikka stepped closer. "Tell me."

He closed his eyes, he didn’t notice when, but he felt his eyes sting as he feels tears start to form as well, as ironic as that may be. "I'm sorry." 

That was all he could utter—Two words—nothing more, nothing useful, and nothing that answered the questions destroying her.

Cynikka laughed bitterly. "Sorry?" She repeated it as though it were something foreign.

"That's all you have?" Another laugh escaped her, and simultaneously, so did her tears. 

"You've brought my dead brother back into my house..." Her breathing faltered. "...and all you can tell me is you're sorry?"

Saparata lowered his head further. "I'm sorry." He murmured again, because it was the only truth he was allowed to give.

Cynikka stared at him for what felt like forever. Then… Her grip loosened, she stepped back, as the anger left her face.

What remained was infinitely worse—Pity.

"...You're cruel."

The words were quiet—not shouted, not spat, simply spoken as if it was the greatest truth Cynikka got from Saparata’s apology

Saparata accepted the words nonetheless, he deserved them.

"...You've hurt him." She looked toward the bedroom Fluixon was in, "He's spent the whole morning asking me what he did wrong."

Another pause.

"He thinks you don't love him anymore." Every word cut deeper than the last. "He kept defending you."

A broken smile crossed her face. "He said there had to be a reason."

Saparata felt his knees threaten to give out.

"He doesn't blame you." That somehow hurt even more. "He blames himself."

Silence.

Then Cynikka looked directly into Saparata's eyes. "But do you know who I think you've been the cruelest to?"

He didn't answer, but he had a quick assumption—her, of course, the family member who had to watch a corpse they’re related to come back alive. 

Yet, as if she read his mind, she softly shook her head. “It’s not me.” she uttered bitterly,  "It’s you."

The word caught him completely off guard.

She shook her head again slowly, but this time, it was simply out of exhaustion. "I don't know what you've done—I don't know why you've done it, and frankly..."

Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks. "...I don't care anymore." Her voice softened. "So listen to me." She took one slow breath. "You loved him."

Saparata closed his eyes.

"You still love him."

He couldn't deny it.

"But whatever this is..." She gestured helplessly towards nothing, but Saparata already got the gist of what she’s referring to anyway. "...This isn't love anymore."

His heart lurched painfully.

"This..." She struggled to continue. "...is punishment."

Silence.

"You aren't bringing him back."

Another pause.

"You're making yourself lose him twice."

The hallway became impossibly still. 

Saparata could no longer tell whether the pounding in his ears was his heartbeat or something breaking inside him.

"You should've let him rest." Her voice had become almost gentle. "And you..."

She looked at him with heartbreaking sympathy, it was so different from the initial anger before. "...should've let yourself grieve."

Before Cynikka could say anything else, the bedroom door suddenly opened.

"There you are." Fluixon smiled as he stepped back into the hallway.

"I got too bored staring at the ceiling of your room, Cyn, it’s awfully more empty than the last time I went here.” He sighed like a disapproving brother.

It was all too familiar for Cynikka, she couldn’t help but immediately wipe her face to hide her tears, but it was too late.

Fluixon frowned. "...You've been crying."

She laughed softly. "I'm fine."

"You've said that three times today." He stepped closer. "You know it doesn't work on me."

Saparata couldn't watch, he turned away before Fluixon could accidentally catch his eyes.

He still approached him anyway, "Come on." Fluixon smiled warmly. "I'll make you some tea before I head home."

‘Home.’

The word echoed painfully inside Saparata's chest.

As Fluixon walked toward the kitchen, Cynikka looked at Saparata one last time.

Her voice was barely audible. "...Please."

A pause.

"If you love him..." Another pause, as if Cynikka wanted to rephrase her words. “...If you love yourself…”

The following words were said in a quiet whisper, "...Then don't make this any more harder than it already is—don’t make him experience death for the second time, and don’t make yourself experience grief for the second time as well.” 

Saparata didn’t need to be a genius to be able to decipher an advice as straightforward as that.

He only wished the way to stop it was just as straightforward as she said it too. 

Five days remained, and for the first time… He wasn't sure whether he feared reaching the end of the bargain—or surviving it.

—

[ DAY TEN ; 4 days remaining. 96 hours remaining. 5,760 minutes remaining. 345,600 seconds remaining. ]

Saparata did not sleep, because every time he closed his eyes, Cynikka's voice found him again.

‘You're making yourself lose him twice.’

The sentence repeated itself over and over until it no longer sounded like something she had said, but sounded more like a prophecy.

By the time dawn painted the apartment windows pale gold, Saparata had already been awake for hours, sitting alone at the dining table.

The bouquet rested before him, another sunflower petal had fallen overnight.

He picked it up carefully, then another. The flowers were still beautiful—still alive, but no matter how often he changed the water… He could not stop time from claiming them.

—

Fluixon entered the kitchen much later than usual, his eyes were swollen. Whether from crying the previous night or from lack of sleep, Saparata couldn't tell. Probably both.

"Morning." His voice was quiet.

Saparata lowered his gaze.

Fluixon didn't wait for an answer anymore. He simply walked to the coffee machine and prepared his own cup.

The silence between them had become familiar, and that frightened Saparata.

People adapted too easily, most especially Fluixon.

And if Fluixon could adapt to anything, then it’s a given that loneliness is no exception.

—

After several minutes, Fluixon spoke.

“Y’know, my interaction with Cynikka yesterday felt so different.” 

Saparata's hands stopped over the newspaper he hadn't actually been reading.

“...It was honestly pretty odd,” He smiled faintly.  "I've never seen her cry that much."

Saparata looked down.

"I asked if something happened." Fluixon continued after a short pause, "She wouldn't tell me."

His smile disappeared. "...And I don’t know why, but I thought maybe she and I were growing apart."

Saparata genuinely almost raised his head at that just to tell him that that was simply impossible, but he felt his body physically restrain himself from doing so. 

"But then I thought otherwise because all of a sudden…” Fluixon stirred his coffee absentmindedly. "...She hugged me for a really long time."

His voice softened. "It felt.. Weird, to be honest." He admitted softly. 

Then, he looked up just to stare at the ceiling, as he searched for the word he wanted to say next. "...It was like she was saying goodbye."

Saparata felt his chest tighten so suddenly that breathing became painful.

"I know." Fluixon laughed awkwardly. "I'm overthinking."

He looked out the window. "She's always been dramatic, so I simply told her that there wasn’t anything to worry about, because it wasn’t like I was some sort of ghost that came to haunt her, y’know?”

That sentence Fluixon uttered was genuinely the most ironic phrase Saparata has ever heard anyone say, to the point he wanted the ground to swallow him whole just to avoid the gnawing feeling in his heart. 

—

Today’s campaign took place inside a luxurious hotel, and inside it was everything you could possibly expect from luxury—elegant suits, crystal chandeliers, expensive watches. Everything polished to perfection.

Saparata stood beneath impossibly bright lights while assistants adjusted the cuffs of his jacket.

One of the stylists stepped back to admire her work. "There." 

She smiled. "You look like you're about to get married."

The room erupted into nervous silence, someone quietly elbowed her, and because of that, she immediately realized what she'd said. "Oh my God."

She looked like she wanted to cry on the spot because of what she just said. "I'm so sorry."

Saparata simply smiled. "It's alright."

She looked as though she wanted the floor to swallow her whole.

Nonetheless, the shoot continued as it always did, but no one mentioned weddings again.

Then, during a short break, Saparata wandered onto one of the hotel's outdoor terraces. The city stretched endlessly below, as wind tugged gently at his neatly styled hair.

He welcomed the quiet, he rarely had any time to welcome it when all his thoughts constantly felt like noise that’ll forever torture him. 

"You hiding from us?" A voice called. 

He turned slightly, the younger model from two days ago stood nearby, holding two bottled waters, without waiting for permission, she offered him one.

He accepted it with a polite nod. "Thanks."

She leaned against the railing. "I hope I didn't bother you the other day."

"You didn't." Saparata confirmed plainly. 

The quick reply earned him a side glance from the model. "You always look like you're thinking."

Saparata gave a faint smile. "I usually am."

She laughed. "I figured."

A comfortable silence settled between them. Eventually, she spoke again. "My boyfriend says I overthink everything."

Saparata listened. 

"He tells me that if something's wrong, I should just ask, and reach out to people who care for me." She laughed quietly. "I never do, though."

She looked out across the skyline. "I just make up selfish solutions instead."

The sentence struck him harder than she could possibly know.

—

He returned home just before sunset, and when he opened the door, the apartment smelled faintly of soup.

Fluixon stood in the kitchen—not cooking, but simply staring into the pot as though he'd forgotten why he had started.

When he heard the door open, he looked over.  "Oh, you came home early."

Saparata removed his coat.

Fluixon looked at him for a long moment before speaking. "...Can I tell you something?"

Silence.

"I know." A tired smile. "You won't answer." He looked down at the soup. "I just..." He exhaled slowly. "...need someone to hear it."

Saparata remained where he was.

"I don't think it's work anymore." The words came carefully. "I kept telling myself it had to be work."

He laughed once. "It would've been easier."

Another pause.

"You've been around so many people lately." His fingers tightened around the wooden spoon. "So many people who understand your world better than I do."

Saparata already knew where this was going, they’ve had this conversation so many times before already, but he can’t blame Fluixon for constantly repeating either, when every time he initiates this conversation, he gets nothing in response to dissolve his worries anyway.

"I used to think..." Fluixon smiled sadly. "...that I'd never have to compete with anyone." 

The spoon rested quietly against the edge of the pot. "Because I trusted you."

A pause.

"I still do."

That made it worse.

"I just..." He looked toward the floor. "...don't think I'm enough anymore."

For several minutes, neither moved. Finally, Fluixon laughed softly. "You know what's funny?"

Saparata remained still.

"I don't even know who I'm jealous of."  Another laugh. "Isn't that ridiculous?"

His smile trembled. "I keep imagining someone."

A pause.

"They're probably beautiful.” No one could be more beautiful than Fluixon could be in Saparata’s eyes.

“They probably understand fashion." No one could pull off a horrendously all-black fit during a summer so handsomely like Fluixon does, and that same sentiment goes for every outfit worn by him.

"They know your schedule." No one cares like Fluixon does to notice the specific days that Saparata would come home late, either due to traffic, overtime, technical issues, or everything previously stated combined together.

His fingers absentmindedly traced circles against the table.

"They probably don't forget things." Now that was just silly, because Saparata is sure that even if Fluixon developed early amnesia, and if the circumstances given allowed him to, he’d never get tired of constantly reminding him of his love. 

Another pause.

"They probably don't burn toast." Fluixon felt himself smile at his own attempt at humor before it shattered as it reached the end.

"They probably..." His voice faltered. "...don't make you feel lonely."

Saparata wanted to bury his face on the palm of his hands, because Fluixon has had a certain streak of saying ironic sentences lately, after all, isn’t the opposite of that phrase more accurate? Saparata has done nothing but make Fluixon feel so lonely this past week. 

Overall, he wanted to tell Fluixon that none of those people existed. That every model he'd ever worked with blurred together the moment he came home. That every glamorous event became forgettable because all he wanted was to tell Fluixon about it afterward.

That there had never been another person—not before, not now, not ever.

Because in Saparata Theria’s world, from the moment he was old enough to remember his memories as a child, there had only been Fluixon Aculon in it., and it will always be Fluixon.

Of course, he couldn’t say any of that. 

So what Fluixon received as a reply was silence.

Again.

But when Saparata thought it was over, Fluixon pushed his chair back. "I met one of your coworkers once."

The statement came unexpectedly, Saparata looked down.

"At one of your agency parties." A faint smile. "She was really nice." He laughed quietly. "She was prettier than me."

That was simply unbelievable, Saparata had thought immediately.  "She looked like she belonged in your world."

How could that happen when Fluixon was his world?  "I remember thinking..."

Another pause.

Fluixon smiled as if what he’ll say next was something embarrassing. "...I hope he never realizes he could do better."

Saparata's heart felt as though it had stopped beating.

"I know." Fluixon shook his head. "Stupid thought." His smile disappeared. "But..."

He finally stood slowly. "...maybe you did."

The sentence hung in the air long after he walked away.

—

That night, Saparata found himself standing before the bathroom mirror.

He hardly recognized the man staring back—dark circles beneath tired eyes, shoulders weighed down by something no one else could see. 

He looked… Older. Not in years, but in grief. He splashed cold water across his face, but it changed nothing. As he stepped back into the hallway, he heard quiet music drifting from the living room.

Fluixon sat on the floor beside the bookshelf, headphones resting around his neck as an old playlist played softly through his phone.

One they had made together years ago, if the corny lyrics that was the hit of the time during their highschool days weren’t an obvious indicator. 

Saparata recognized every song.

Fluixon smiled faintly as the music continued. "You always skipped this one."

A pause.

"I liked it anyway." He looked toward the empty space beside him on the floor. "...I miss listening to music with you."

Saparata stood unseen in the hallway.

The song reached its chorus. Fluixon quietly sang along, not loudly or perfectly, but just enough to fill the apartment with a voice Saparata had once believed he'd never hear again.

His throat tightened,  Saparata couldn't stay. He turned away before the song finished.

Behind him, Fluixon continued humming alone.

Four days remained, the apartment still contained two people, yet every passing day… It felt more like one was already mourning the other, the only problem was identifying which among them was the one doing the mourning, and the one being mourned.

—

[ DAY ELEVEN ; 3 days remaining. 72 hours remaining. 4,320 minutes remaining. 259,200 seconds remaining. ]

Three days. The number haunted Saparata from the moment he opened his eyes.

Three days until the bargain ended, three days until he would either spend the rest of his life with Fluixon… or lose him forever.

It should have given him hope, but it only filled him with dread, because every day he successfully obeyed the contract, only seemed to convince Fluixon further that he had already broken a different promise.

—

The apartment was unusually cold that morning, and it was perhaps because neither of them had remembered to close the balcony door the night before.

A cool breeze drifted lazily through the curtains, carrying with it the scent of rain-soaked pavement.

Saparata crossed the living room to close it. As he slid the glass door shut, he noticed the little sunflower plant beside the window.

Its leaves drooped slightly. He frowned, the  soil was dry. He reached for the watering can without thinking. A gentle stream soaked the earth until it darkened once more.

"...You noticed." Fluixon's voice came from behind him.

Saparata paused.

"I forgot to water it yesterday." A quiet laugh. "I've been forgetting a lot of things lately."

Saparata carefully returned the watering can to its place.

"I used to remember everything." Another pause. "Guess I've had a lot on my mind."

Silence.

"I almost let it die." 

The words weren't about the plant anymore.

Saparata knew it, so did Fluixon.

—

Work ended before noon, a rare cancellation left the afternoon unexpectedly free. His manager encouraged him to go home. "You've looked exhausted all week."

He thanked her quietly before leaving. On the drive back, he stopped at the flower shop.

The florist smiled the moment she saw him. "The usual?"

Saparata nodded.

She carefully prepared another bouquet of sunflowers and hyacinths. As she wrapped the stems, she glanced toward him. "Someone must be very loved."

The sentence caught him off guard, he looked down at the flowers because of it. "...He is." That was the first time in a while that he has ever publicly admitted such a thing.

The florist smiled warmly. "I can tell."

If only it were that simple.

—

When he arrived home, the apartment was silent. Fluixon wasn't inside.

A familiar unease settled immediately, but it quickly dissipated  as he noticed another note.

Went for a walk.

Didn't want to stay inside all day.

I'll be back before dinner.

Saparata read it twice. Then folded it carefully and placed it beside the others he had quietly begun keeping inside one of the kitchen drawers.

He hadn't realized there were already so many small pieces of paper—small attempts at reaching him.

Each one were always left unanswered, even the one that Saparata had been treasuring the most as of lately—the one with his surname besides Fluixon.

—

Fluixon returned just before evening. His cheeks were slightly flushed from the cool air.

He carried a small paper bag. "I bought pastries." He placed them on the counter. "They're from that bakery near the park."

Saparata recognized it immediately. It was the same bakery where they had celebrated Saparata's first magazine cover years ago.

Fluixon unpacked the box, there were four pastries inside—two cream-filled and two fruit tarts.

"You always liked the cream ones." His smile lingered for only a moment. "...If remembered correctly."

Saparata stood perfectly still.

Fluixon carefully pushed the box toward him. "You can have them."

Silence.

"I don't really feel hungry."

That was a lie, Saparata knew Fluixon loved fruit tarts more than almost any dessert.

He was giving them away because he wanted Saparata to have what he liked first. Even now, even after everything—It was always Saparata above all else in Fluixon’s mind.

—

Later that evening, he found Fluixon sitting on the balcony. The city lights stretched endlessly beyond him. The cool wind moved gently through his hair.

Saparata remained just inside the doorway.

Far enough not to be noticed, but close enough to hear.

"I think..." Fluixon spoke quietly to himself. "...I've been selfish."

Saparata's chest tightened.

"I kept asking what was wrong."

A small smile.

"I never stopped to think maybe..." He laughed once. "...maybe he’s just trying to spare my feelings."

No, Fluixon.

"Maybe he couldn't figure out how to tell me." His hands rested loosely around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold. "Well, who can blame him? I would've made it difficult."

He looked down at the untouched drink. "I would've cried." Another laugh. "I definitely would've cried."

Saparata gripped the edge of the doorway.

"You've always hated making me cry." The words were spoken with so much certainty that they nearly broke him. "So maybe..."

A long pause.

"...you've been trying to make me realize it on my own."

The wrong conclusion—every single piece fit together perfectly, too perfectly, because Saparata had left Fluixon with nothing except silence, and that silence allowed people to invent explanations kinder than the truth.

"I think..." Fluixon swallowed. "...there really is someone else."

Saparata's breathing stopped. He heard the sentence, he understood the words, yet they refused to feel real.

"You don't have to tell me." The sentence spoken was so quiet Saparata wouldn’t have heard it if their environment wasn’t as quiet as it was at the moment. "I don't think I could handle hearing it anyway."

His voice remained remarkably calm, and that was what’s scary—usually, people cry loudly when hope still remained, and when that hope has dwindled, they’d merely cry quietly as they begin to accept reality.

"I hope..." He smiled through the tears. "...they make you happier than I did."

Something inside Saparata shattered—not cracked, not fractured—shattered.

He took half a step forward before stopping himself so abruptly that his heel struck the wooden floor.

The small sound made Fluixon glance toward the apartment, Saparata immediately hid himself, and thankfully, Fluixon didn’t seem to notice.

After a few seconds, Fluixon looked away again. "I guess..." He wiped quickly at his face. "...this is goodbye."

No.

"It doesn't have to happen today."

Another pause.

"But..." His smile was impossibly gentle. "...I think I've already lost you."

The words echoed through the apartment long after Fluixon went back inside, and through it all, Saparata still successfully evaded getting noticed by him.

—

That night, Saparata sat alone in the spare room.

Around him lay all the boxes they had sorted through years earlier—photographs, receipts, movie tickets, old birthday cards, and so on. Overall, It was a simple compilation of things that held memories that were too sweet for any of them to throw away.

While he mindlessly scanned it, his fingers stopped on a faded envelope.

Inside was a letter written years ago. He recognized his own handwriting immediately.

It was the first love letter he had ever given Fluixon.

He hadn't even remembered writing it, and just from the ridiculously messy handwriting, he could most likely assume it was during the phase in highschool where he had hopelessly pined for his childhood best friend, Fluixon. 

Either way, the paper had yellowed slightly with age, and the ink remained perfectly legible. He didn't read all of it—he didn't need to, as his eyes caught only one sentence.

If there ever comes a day where you doubt my love, I hope I tell you before silence ever does.

The room spun.

Saparata lowered the letter slowly.

Silence had done exactly what he once promised it never would.

Three days remained, and right now, Saparata wasn't counting down to the end of the bargain anymore, he was counting down to the moment Fluixon finally stopped believing in him.

—

[ DAY TWELVE ; 2 days remaining. 48 hours remaining. 2,880 minutes remaining. 172,800 seconds remaining. ]

On the twelfth day, Fluixon stopped waiting, It wasn't a decision Saparata witnessed—there was no dramatic declaration, no slammed doors, no final conversation. Instead, it happened so quietly that Saparata almost missed it.

—

Breakfast was already prepared when Saparata entered the kitchen, but there was a major difference, the usual two plates of food was nowhere to be seen, because there was only one plate.

Fluixon sat at the counter eating quietly while reading something on his phone. When Saparata walked in, he looked up. "Oh, morning."

Saparata lowered his gaze.

Fluixon nodded once, almost as though he had expected the silence. "I made enough if you're hungry." He gestured toward the pan on the stove. "I wasn't sure if you'd eat."

Saparata served himself mechanically. The apartment was so quiet that the clink of utensils against porcelain sounded almost intrusive.

Halfway through the meal, Fluixon stood. "I'll head out after this."

Saparata's hand stopped.

"I promised Cynikka I'd help her reorganize some things."

A pause.

"She said she wanted the company." The mention of Cynikka brought the previous days rushing back.

‘You're making yourself lose him twice.’

"I'll be back before evening, though." Fluixon smiled politely. "You don't have to worry."

The words struck Saparata like a blade—they weren't cruel, it’s just that the words felt like Fluixon no longer believed Saparata worried at all.

—

After his horrendous morning, Saparata spent the entire day functioning on instinct—he smiled when photographers asked him to, he changed outfits when stylists instructed him, he stood beneath blinding studio lights while cameras captured expressions he could no longer feel.

His expressions had become effortless.

It was everything underneath it that required every ounce of strength he had left.

—

By the time he reached the apartment, dusk had already settled over the city.  The lights inside were on, and for a brief, foolish second, he allowed himself to believe nothing had changed.

Then he opened the door, and froze.There were cardboard boxes—not many, but enough to actually have worry snake around his spine to send him goosebumps. There was one beside the bookshelf, another near the hallway, and a third rested beside the bedroom door, its flaps still open.

When Saparata walked just a tad bit closer, he saw that the Inside were neatly folded clothes, books, and picture frames wrapped carefully in newspaper.

Nothing had been thrown inside carelessly, everything had been packed with the same gentleness Fluixon treated everything he loved.

Saparata couldn't breathe. His eyes drifted across the apartment.

The bookshelf looked emptier—several novels were gone. Furthermore, the record player still remained, but the small stack of vinyl records beside it had disappeared. Even the little ceramic kitty Fluixon insisted on displaying despite claiming it was "hideous" was nowhere to be found.

The apartment hadn't changed much, from a literal perspective, but every detail that belonged to Fluixon had simply been scrapped clean from Saparata’s sight.

Because Fluixon wasn't leaving out of anger.

He was leaving carefully.

As though he didn't wish to inconvenience the person he was leaving behind, but before Saparata could truly freak out about it, Fluixon’s familiar voice drifted from the balcony.

"...Cyn." Fluixon greeted softly, his phone was on the side of his ear as he stared at the city lights in front of him.

Saparata stopped, when he turned his head slightly, he noticed that the thebalcony door wasn't completely shut, but because of his distance, he could only hear Fluixon's side of the conversation.

"...Yes, I'm sure." Fluixon seemed to have confirmed a question that came from Cynikka. 

A long silence followed.

Saparata imagined Cynikka speaking through the phone.

Fluixon listened, then smiled sadly. "...No."

Another pause.

"I don't think I misunderstood." His fingers tightened around the strap of his work bag. "...He's been trying to tell me for almost two weeks."

Saparata felt his entire body go rigid about that—tell him about what? He has never even spoken a single word to Fluixon this past few—

Fluixon’s response cut his train of thought. "...I just kept pretending I didn't understand."

…Oh, nevermind, I believe he gets it now.

Saparata closed his eyes as he felt his heart tighten from utter disbelief. On the other end of the call, Cynikka must have raised her voice, because Fluixon laughed softly.

"...You're making it sound like there's another explanation." Fluixon muttered, and just from that statement, Saparata believes he can already piece together their current conversation.

Fluixon is leaving, and by some miracle, it’s Cynikka out of all people that seems to be against the idea of it—actually, scratch that, it’s not that she’s against the idea, but more so, she seems to simply believe also that Fluixon’s reason for leaving is entirely created from misunderstandings that no one brought upon except Saparata.

Saparata was too deep into his thoughts as he tried to decipher the conversation to fully register the silence that lasted longer than the previous one.

He only seemed to snap out of it when Fluixon finally spoke again, "...Cyn." This time, his voice trembled. "...Please stop."

Another pause.

"I know you're trying to make me feel better."

Saparata's heartbeat became unbearably loud.

"...But..." Fluixon swallowed audibly. "...I've already made up my mind."

No.

"...I don’t care that we have a wedding planned soon." His voice remained calm.

Saparata had to bite back a bitter laugh at the mention of the wedding again, of course it would be Cynikka Aculon who’d be brave enough to mention the wedding that had already happened as a way to persuade Fluixon into changing his mind, because in his memories, it was something that has yet to happen.

But alas, Fluixon wouldn’t be who he is right now if not for his sheer stubbornness. "...I don't want to stand beside him at the altar if..."

He laughed once. "...if his heart already left weeks ago."

Saparata's fingers curled painfully into his palms.

"I'd rather end it now… Before we make promises that neither of us can keep."

Silence, even though Saparata wasn’t that near Fluixon, he could practically already hear the static voice of Cynikka on the other side of the phone. That alone says a lot about how loud her voice must desperately be. 

"...No." His voice cracked for the first time. "I won't ask him again."

Another pause.

"...I already know the answer."

After that, Saparata wanted to walk outside, to interrupt, to tell him none of it was true, to just say fuck it and go down on his knees to beg for forgiveness to the love of his life for the amount of unbelievable pain this brain has put the both of them through.

But around this point, his body had already gone accustomed to choosing flight over fight, so he never moved. The bargain tightened around his ribs like chains.

"...I'm tired, Cyn." A weak laugh. "...I'm so tired."

The next words were almost impossible to hear. "...I love him."

Silence.

"...I think..." His breathing shook. "...I'll always love him."

Another pause.

"...That's exactly why I have to let him go."

And before Cynikka could’ve said anything else, Saparata saw Fluixon end the call with too much hurry in his movements. 

Saparata didn’t know when he moved quickly enough to avoid Fluixon noticing him, he didn't remember walking to the bedroom, he only remembered closing the door.

The lock clicked—the sound echoed loudly inside the empty room. He sat on the edge of the bed, and for several seconds… Nothing happened.

Then his shoulders shook. A single tear struck the wooden floor.

Another followed—then another. Until he could no longer tell where one ended and the next began. He buried his face into the pillow. Not because it offered comfort—but because he couldn't allow himself to make a sound.

Not when Fluixon was only a room away; not when the man he loved believed he was grieving someone who no longer loved him back.

Saparata cried the way people drowned—completely quiet, with no one noticing until everything had already disappeared beneath the surface.

—

Hours passed, and at some point, exhaustion won over grief—or perhaps grief simply became too exhausted to continue.

The room had grown dark, meanwhile, rain tapped softly against the bedroom window outside. 

Saparata kept his eyes closed, he wasn't asleep, he just simply no longer possessed the strength to open them.

The bedroom door creaked, very slowly. Someone—or if he wasn’t that much of a coward to say it; Fluixon—stepped inside, his gentle footsteps crossed the room before stopping beside the bed.

Then there was silence, long enough that Saparata wondered whether Fluixon had changed his mind and left.

Then, very carefully, the mattress dipped, just barely. As though Fluixon had only rested one hand against its edge.

Saparata felt it, and with every fiber of his being, he kept perfectly still.

A shaky breath reached his ears. "...You cried." The whisper was so quiet it almost vanished beneath the rain, and he had to resist every urge inside his body to shiver at that observation, because no matter how hard the past days have been for them, Fluixon could still see Saparata’s imperfect cracks in his perfect facade better than anyone else. 

Another silence.

Saparata imagined Fluixon looking at him the way he used to whenever illness stole his appetite, or when he had nightmares that kept him awake until sunrise back when they were children.

There was another tiny shift beside the bed, and in Saparata’s cruel mind, he had imagined that Fluixon had almost reached for him.

Almost. Because the movement stopped before he could fully process his brittle imagination, so in that sense,his hand never landed.

"...I still..." The sentence broke apart before it could finish.

A quiet inhale.

Then, with heartbreaking care laced in his voice, he finally muttered something that’ll haunt Saparata and his stupid, selfish decisions. "...I hope..."

Another pause.

"...whoever makes you happy..." His voice trembled. "...takes care of you better than I ever had."

Saparata felt something inside him collapse.

When Fluixon stood, the mattress rose again, then soft footsteps crossed the room. The bedroom door opened, but it closed, one final whisper slipped through the darkness.

"...Goodnight, Saps."

The room became silent once more, Saparata finally opened his eyes, and when he did, there was no one there.

Only the empty doorway, and the space beside the bed where Fluixon had almost reached for him.

Two days remained—Outside, the rain continued to fall; Inside, Saparata realized something far more terrifying than the bargain itself.

He wasn't losing Fluixon because of death anymore; he was losing him because Fluixon had finally found the strength to say goodbye.

—

[ DAY THIRTEEN ; 1 day remaining. 24 hours remaining. 1,440 minutes remaining. 86,400 seconds remaining. ] 

One day. Twenty-four hours. One thousand four hundred forty minutes. Eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds.

Saparata repeated the numbers in his head the same way one repeated a prayer—ONE more day. He had survived thirteen. He only needed to survive one more.

One more sunrise. One more sunset. One more night of silence.

Then he could tell Fluixon everything—HE could apologize, he could explain, he could hold him without fear.

The thought should have comforted him.

But instead… It had terrified him.

Because for the first time since accepting the bargain, Saparata began to wonder if Fluixon would still be there to hear it everything he has been bottling up for nearly two weeks.

—

The apartment felt strangely peaceful that morning—not because anything had improved, but because resignation had seemingly settled over everything. Even the silence had changed, It no longer felt tense, it felt final. 

Fluixon was already awake, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with an old cardboard boxes beside him, which Saparata already saw yesterday.

Saparata stopped walking at the mere sight of it.

Fluixon looked up. "Oh." He smiled politely. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

Saparata lowered his gaze.

"I figured I'd organize some of my things." He picked up an old sweater, it was the one Saparata had bought him during one particularly cold winter.

He laughed softly. "You always complained I stole your hoodies, saying that I kept taking too much from you already." 

He folded it carefully. "...I guess you were right." He sighed softly, but somehow, Fluixon didn’t seem like he was talking about hoodies or sweaters.

The sweater disappeared into the box, Saparata's heart sank and went along with it.

—

The rest of the morning passed unbearably slowly.

Saparata found reasons to remain nearby—he wiped already clean countertops, folded laundry that had been folded yesterday, reorganized drawers that didn't need reorganizing.

Anything. Anything to remain in the same room. Anything to reassure himself that Fluixon was still there.

Each time he passed through the living room, he noticed another empty space.

A missing book. A missing decoration. A missing piece of the life they had built together.

It felt like watching someone quietly erase a home all over again.

—

Just after noon, the doorbell rang.

Jophiel.

She stepped inside carrying another fresh basket of fruits, but when she saw the box on the living room floor, her smile disappeared. "...Flux?"

Fluixon looked up. "Oh." He smiled warmly. "You're here."

“...Hi.” Jophiel swallowed, as she smiled genuinely at seeing him again, albeit there was a hint of sorrow in it. "I brought fruits."

"You always do." He accepted them with a grateful smile. "They’re greatly appreciated.."

Saparata watched his sister struggle to keep her composure. She looked from Fluixon… To the half-packed box… Then briefly toward Saparata.

He recognized the question in her eyes immediately—’What happened?’

He couldn't answer, he never could, not even when there was only a day left in his bargain.

Jophiel stayed only a few minutes, seemingly visiting just to catch up and deliver the fruits. Before leaving, she squeezed Saparata's shoulder—not hard, just enough to remind him that she was there.

As she stepped into the hallway, she quietly directed a whisper to him.  "...Please don't lose him again."

The words nearly brought him to his knees, because unfortunately, he has already lost him before, and it seems that he’s already losing him again. 

—

That afternoon, rain returned, but today, it was more gentle and steady. The kind Fluixon loved listening to.

Fluixon opened the balcony door despite the cool breeze. "It smells nice." He smiled faintly. "It’s like the city finally remembered how to breathe."

Saparata stood several steps behind him—watching, listening, memorizing—every tiny habit, and every expression Fluixon could make, as if he were preparing himself for another funeral.

"Can I tell you something?" Fluixon asked quietly, he didn't wait for permission. "I've been thinking about our wedding."

Saparata's heartbeat faltered.

"I never got to tell you this." A small laugh. "But I’m terrified for it."

He looked out at the rain.

"I worry something would go wrong."

Saparata narrowed his eyes at that—It had, in every possible way.

“Something like… me forgetting my vows.” He smiled to himself. "I think because of that, I  actually had to write them on my phone because I knew I'd panic."

A pause.

"Though, I don't even remember what I wrote anymore."

Saparata did, though. Fluixon had shown them to him the night before, asking if they sounded too embarrassing.

Saparata had laughed and told him they were perfect, yet even if they were, they never got the chance to be spoken.

"I wonder..." Fluixon's voice softened. "...if maybe that was for the best." he hummed, implying that the wedding not happening is better for the both of them, Saparata can’t even begin to comprehend how wrong that was. 

Fluixon continued anyway, "Maybe..." He rested both hands on the balcony railing. "...some promises aren't meant to be heard."

Hah, Saparata couldn’t argue about that.

—

Evening arrived, neither of them ate much for dinner, eventually leading to the food going cool and untouched between them.

Eventually, Fluixon stood first. "I think..." He hesitated. "...I've made a decision."

Saparata's pulse quickened.

Fluixon smiled peacefully. "I don't want to keep making this harder for you."

Every word felt carefully chosen, as if he had spent hours nitpicking on how he’ll say the next following words.  "I kept hoping things would go back to how they were."

A small shake of his head, it was firm. "They won't."

Silence.

"So..." He took one slow breath. "...tomorrow..."

Saparata's hands curled into fists.

"...I'll leave."

The world stopped.

"I'll probably stay with Cynikka for a while." He smiled faintly. "I think she'll pretend not to like having me around." A quiet laugh. "But she'll secretly love it."

…Tomorrow?

No.

Tomorrow was the final day.

The last day.

The day everything was supposed to be over.

"I think..." Fluixon continued, "...it'll be easier." His voice was gentle. "For both of us."

No, it wouldn’t.

"It doesn't mean I stopped loving you." Fluixon kept continuing, Saparata felt tears burning behind his eyes. "I don't think I ever could."

Fluixon looked down at his own hands. "I just..." Another breath. "...don't want to make you feel trapped anymore."

Every sentence became another knife.

"If you've found someone else..." His smile trembled. "...then I hope they love you properly."

No one else can ever love him like Fluixon Aculon could. "Y’know, there was a time..." His voice cracked for the first time in days. "...when I stubbornly thought I'd be enough."

Silence.

"But fortunately, I know better now." Fluixon ended with a faint laugh. 

Saparata had never hated silence more as much as he did now.

—

That night, long after Fluixon had gone to bed, Saparata wandered into the living room.

The cardboard box remained by the couch, half full and patiently waiting. Inside rested the old sweater, the ceramic cat, the scarf, the sketchbook—A life reduced to objects. At the very top sat a folded envelope.

Curiosity overtook him.

He carefully unfolded it, inside was a handwritten letter, not addressed, and not finished.

He recognized Fluixon's handwriting immediately.

I don't think love disappears.

I think people just stop needing it from the same person.

If you've found happiness somewhere else, I hope one day I can be grateful instead of heartbroken.

Then, at the very bottom, there was a message scribbled hastily, but Saparata had endured every stage of Fluixon’s and his own’s handwriting skills to decipher it quickly. 

Perhaps, in another day—or lifetime, I would have bore your surname instead of my own.

— Fluixon Aculon

Saparata couldn't read any further, his vision blurred once he saw the signature.  He folded the letter exactly as he had found it, placed it back, closed the box, then rested one trembling hand on the lid.

Tomorrow.

Only tomorrow remained—Twenty-four hours. One thousand four hundred forty minutes. Eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds.

He had accepted unbearable silence because he believed it would save the person he loved.

Now… Standing before the box that Fluixon intended to carry out of their home… Saparata realized something far more frightening than death.

He had almost succeeded.

Only to discover that surviving until the end meant nothing… If the person waiting there had already decided to say goodbye.

—

[ DAY FOURTEEN ; 0 days remaining. 0 hours remaining. 0 minutes remaining. 0 seconds remaining.]

Saparata Theria had spent thirteen days counting down—he had counted every day, every hour, every minute, and every second. He had memorized the numbers because they were the only proof he had that this nightmare had an ending.

They had been the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes in the morning, written somewhere only he could see. They had followed him through every room of the apartment, through every conversation he refused to have, through every moment where Fluixon Aculon sat only a few feet away and somehow felt like he was an entire lifetime away.

That if he could simply endure long enough, everything would return to normal.

Fluixon would stay, the world would make sense again, and the impossible miracle he had begged for would finally become permanent.

But on the morning of the fourteenth day… Saparata realized he had been afraid of the wrong ending, because the most wrong ending was that the thing he had wanted most—the thing he had sacrificed everything for—was now something he dreaded more than anything.

He wasn't afraid of losing Fluixon—not anymore. He had been living through that fear since the day he opened his eyes and saw an empty space where his fiancé should have been.

The cruelest part was that the thing he had wanted most—the thing he had sacrificed everything for—was now something he dreaded more than anything.

The thing he truly feared was losing Fluixon while still believing he had never been loved. 

—

The apartment was quiet; not painfully quiet, not like the suffocating silence that had filled every room for the past two weeks. It was filled with something else, a calm before something inevitable.

Saparata stood in the kitchen preparing coffee—two cups out of pure habit. He stared at the second one for several seconds as his hand remained wrapped around the second cup.

It was just a simple, harmless habit. Yet his body remembered before his mind could stop it.

Because for years, there had always been two cups.

One for him, one for Fluixon; one bitter because Saparata liked it that way, and one sweeter because Fluixon always complained that Saparata drank coffee like he was punishing himself.

A small smile almost formed—almost.

Then reality returned, because of his own actions, there would not be another morning after this.

Slowly, carefully, Saparata placed the second cup back inside the cabinet. The movement felt heavier than it should have. It was just a cup—just a tiny piece of a normal life.

But that was what hurt the most, after all, the things he was losing were never grand. They were never the dramatic moments people wrote stories about—they were the ordinary ones.

Fluixon stealing food from his plate despite having his own. Fluixon complaining about the temperature of the room while refusing to wear the blanket Saparata gave him. Fluixon humming while watering the flowers. Fluixon laughing at jokes that weren't even funny because he loved seeing Saparata smile.

Because even after everything—even after thirteen days of watching Fluixon slowly detach himself, some part of him still believed they would wake up tomorrow and return to the way things were.

That life would continue.

But life did not work that way.

Saparata knew better than anyone.

—

When he entered the living room, Fluixon was already there. The box from yesterday sat beside the couch, it was all packed, closed up, and simply ready to go.

Saparata stopped at the sight of it, the floor creaked beneath him when he did so, which made Fluixon look up.

For a moment, neither spoke, then Fluixon smiled—a real smile. The kind Saparata had spent fourteen days desperately trying to bring back.

"Morning."

Saparata lowered his gaze.

Fluixon stood. "I made breakfast." He gestured toward the table.

"Well..." A small laugh. "I tried."

Saparata looked.

There were two plates filled with food, and a small mistake in the arrangement because Fluixon had accidentally placed the forks on the wrong sides. It was something so ordinary, yet so painfully familiar.

"I figured..." Fluixon continued quietly. "...we could have one last normal morning."

Saparata froze.

One last.

The words settled heavily. Fluixon noticed his expression and immediately softened. "Not like that."

Even after all of this, Fluixon was the one brave enough to give reassurance, "I don't mean it in a bad way." He smiled sadly.

He looked around the apartment. "I just think..."

A pause.

"I think we both deserve one." He hummed softly, referring to the one last normal morning.

Because of that, they ate together—sitting in front of each other instead of one being distant enough to eat at the countertop of the kitchen—for the first time in days. Unfortunately, it was not because anything had been fixed, or because the silence disappeared, but because Fluixon seemed to have stopped waiting for Saparata to change.

And somehow, that hurt more.

And for another first time, Fluixon started talking about small things, like he used to during the first week—the weather, the flowers, a movie they never finished watching, the bakery near the park.

Things that didn't matter; things that mattered more than anything.

Saparata memorized every second—the way Fluixon held his cup, the way he smiled before laughing, the way he tilted his head whenever he was thinking.

He wanted to remember everything, because some part of him already knew he had to.

—

After breakfast, Fluixon returned to the bedroom, and when he came back, he held the last remaining item.

A small wooden box.

Saparata recognized it immediately—it was the storage for their wedding rings. The ones they had planned to exchange, and the ones that had never touched Fluixon’s hands after their engagement, because Saparata was selfish enough to wear the ring anyway after the incident at the wedding.

Fluixon opened the box. "I thought about taking this."

Saparata's breathing slowed.

"But..." Fluixon looked down. "I don't think I should."

The sentence was spoken so gently that it hurt. "I think they belong here."

No, they belonged with him—everything belonged with him.

"Maybe..." Fluixon closed the box. "...some things are meant to stay beautiful because they never happened."

Saparata felt his chest tighten.

Even after believing Saparata had stopped loving him, Fluixon still found a way to be kind.

—

The rest of the day turned into a blur for Saparata, which was funny, because despite the fact that this should’ve been the most joyous day out of them all—because the finish line was just a single breath away from him, it somehow felt the most tortuous. 

And before he knew it, the final minutes before midnight arrived quietly. There was no thunder, or any sort of dramatic sign from the universe.

Fluixon stood by the door holding the box.

Saparata remained just a few steps away, yet the distance between them felt unbearable.

"I guess..." Fluixon looked around the apartment one last time. "...this is goodbye."

Saparata's throat tightened.

Fluixon smiled. "You know..." A quiet laugh. "I used to think goodbyes were supposed to be angry." He looked at the floor. "I thought people left because they hated each other."

A pause.

"But sometimes..." His smile faded. "...people leave because they love each other enough to stop causing pain."

No.

Saparata couldn't let him believe that.

Not anymore.

Fluixon reached for the door handle.

"Saparata." Fluixon said the name—his name—so softly, like it still belonged to someone who loved him. "I hope you're happy."

The door began opening.

"And I hope..." He took a breath. "...whoever you choose loves you the way you deserve."

No.

The thought appeared before the word.

Not again.

—

Saparata didn't think.

He didn't calculate, he didn't consider the contract, he didn’t even realize that as Fluixon said those words, as he opened the door, that the clock had already struck at 11:59 P.M, meaning that if he loved Fluixon any lesser, he could’ve waited a single minute so that the bargain can set him free. 

But he didn’t, because for two weeks, he had lived by those rules, and in those two weeks, he had sacrificed every instinct he had mastered after knowing and loving Fluixon his whole life.

But now… Now Fluixon was leaving, and the only thing louder than his fear of losing the bargain was the undeniable truth of how much he loves Fluixon Aculon.

"Fluixon." The name escaped Saparata’s lips, and this time, he didn’t stop it. Hearing his own voice properly after two weeks strangely felt foreign. 

After he spoke, everything seemed to stop—the apartment, the air, time itself.

Even Fluixon froze, the door was already half open as he slowly—very slowly—turned around.

And for the first time in two weeks, he saw Saparata stand there looking—actually looking, at him.

For the first time in fourteen days, three hundred thirty-six hours, twenty thousand one hundred sixty minutes, and one million two hundred nine thousand six hundred seconds—golden eyes met dark purple ones. 

Fluixon's expression changed immediately—confusion, shock, pain, all at once in no particular order, and he found himself hesitantly opening his mouth and closing it again out of disbelief.

When he found the courage to finally speak, "Sap—" He couldn't finish.

Because Saparata crossed the distance between them, Fluixon merely blinked for a split of a second before Saparata was already in front of him, wrapping his arms around Fluixon from so tightly and desperately, like if he loosened his grip for even a second, the universe would take him away again.

The impact of the sudden hug was enough to bring Fluixon to his knees, and Saparata went along with him, as they both sunk onto the ground, with Saparata’s hands softly cradling Fluixon’s head so it wouldn’t hit the wall behind them. 

Fluixon went completely still, he couldn’t even reciprocate the embrace because Saparata refused to let him go anyway as buried his face against his shoulder.

And then he broke.

"I'm sorry." The words came out shattered, not controlled or careful, just hopelessly honest.

"I'm sorry." His grip tightened again, "I'm so sorry."

Fluixon's breath trembled, when he wanted to speak, he was always cut off.

"No." Saparata’s voice cracked. "Please." This was the first time he had begged Fluixon for anything in fourteen days. "Please let me say this."

A pause.

"I should have told you." He murmured, his fell freely now.

"I should have looked at you, I should have held your hand, I should have told you every single day that..."

His voice became smaller.

"...I love you."

Saparata couldn’t see it, but Fluixon's eyes had started to well up in their own tears too.

"I love you."

Again.

"And I never stopped." Saparata took a shaky breath. "Because there was never anyone else."

The words came quickly now, like a dam finally breaking.

"There could never be anyone else—you thought I found someone better." A broken laugh escaped him. "But Fluixon… You are the only person I've ever wanted, the only person I've ever chosen, and the only person I would choose again."

Fluixon had to look up so that the tears in his eyes wouldn’t fall. Saparata knew that when he felt Fluixon shift, and out of tremendous fear, he made sure his face would remain buried in Fluixon’s shoulders for the next few moments. 

Then finally… Saparata Theria told Fluixon Aculon everything—the wedding day, the stranger, the offer, the bargain, the rules, and the two weeks, fourteen days, three hundred thirty-six hours, twenty thousand one hundred sixty minutes, and one million two hundred nine thousand six hundred seconds of constantly loving Fluixon even to the point of silence.

Every impossible second wasn’t spared, and every possible worry Fluixon had created in those seconds were dissipated in one small, fragile moment. Yet throughout the whole rant, Fluixon listened.

If he were honest, Saparata hated every word that left his mouth, because the more he explained… the more he realized how wrong he had been.

"I thought..." His voice shook. "I thought loving you meant refusing to lose you."

"I thought if I suffered enough… If I followed every rule… If I endured everything… Then I could keep you." A sob in the form of a brittle laugh escaped. "But I was wrong."

Fluixon held onto his arms.

"I was so afraid of losing you..." Saparata whispered. "...that I forgot to love you while you were here."

A painful silence occurred.

"I brought you back." His voice broke. "But I wasn't really giving you a second chance."

"I was giving myself another chance to avoid grieving." He shook his head.

"I'm sorry.” Saparata didn’t know how many times he had uttered those words, already, but it didn’t matter, because he would always need to utter it a million more to even begin to compensate a fraction of the pain he must have put Fluixon through.

“I’m sorry I made you spend these fourteen days thinking you weren't loved." He finally admitted softly/ "You died once..." 

"And because I couldn't accept it..." His voice nearly disappeared. "I made you feel like you were losing me too."

Saparata held him tighter, he didn’t even know one could possible embrace a person this tight.  "You deserved to spend these days living, you deserved laughter, you deserved petty arguments over breakfast, you deserved to annoy me, you deserved to make fun of my clothes…”

"...You deserved everything." His voice broke completely. "Instead, I turned your miracle into another funeral."

—

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Fluixon turned around inside his arms.

Saparata immediately looked away and turned to the side, his cheek touching Fluixon’s shoulder, it was an unfortunate instinct he had developed after two weeks of painful longing.

But that didn’t stop Fluixon, instead, he raised his hands and gently touched Saparata’s face. "No." The word was quiet, as he slowly guided Saparata’s face towards him. "Look at me."

Saparata hesitated, but he followed anyway, unknowingly melting in Fluixon’s cold touch, he felt like he had already forgotten the feeling of it after so long.

Their eyes met—really met—And even though Fluixon’s eyes were slightly red from the tears, the smile that accompanied him could rival the sun itself. 

"You are unbelievable." A broken laugh escaped him. "You really thought you had to do all of this alone?"

Saparata couldn't answer, Fluixon wiped his tears before he even registered that they were falling. "You idiot."

The word carried no anger, only love. "You absolute idiot."

"I was scared." Fluixon admitted. "I was hurt, I thought that despite all the years we have shared, I wasn't enough."

A pause.

"But..." He smiled faintly. "It seemed that the real reason after all wasn’t because you didn't love me."

The realization in Fluixon’s eyes seemed to have remove the invisible boulder that sagged Saparata’s shoulders all this time, "...It was because you loved me so much you forgot yourself along the way for it.."

Saparata looked down, Fluixon lifted his chin anyway.

“But it’s okay.” Fluixon reassured him softly. "Because I’ll always be here to remind you yourself, won’t I?”

The sentence destroyed him.

Fluixon continued despite it, “After all, don't have to earn my love..."

"...You already had it."

After that, Saparata finally had enough willpower to register a few things in his surroundings; for starters, Fluixon was colder than a normal person should be, secondly, his skin seemed to glow despite the lack of moonlight that passed through the windows, thirdly, the sunflowers and hyacinths at the table seemed to suddenly gain their colors back once more despite the fact the last time Saparata remembered, they were nearing the stages of wilting. 

Lastly… despite the long conversation they had, the clock was still stuck at 11:59 P.M.

He almost laughed at the realization, as if the stranger was watching over them, and deliberately stopped time itself just to give Saparata the chance to regain Fluixon’s understanding of his love. 

As if on cue, Fluixon smiled sadly. "Would you do it again?" The question wasn't accusing, It was merely asking.

Saparata thought about it—about the funeral, the bargain, the silence, and the pain. Then he immediately shook his head.

"No."

Fluixon's expression softened. "No?"

Saparata held his hand. "No." His voice was steadier. "Because I finally understand."

His voice was firmer now, even though it was still on the verge of breaking every so often. "I don't want a miracle that makes me forget how to love you."

"I don't want forever if I have to spend it afraid." A tear fell. "I just want you."

"I wish you learned that sooner." Fluixon smiled, the familiar lilt of a scolding tone can be subtly seen in his voice.

Saparata laughed through tears. "I know."

Then, when Saparata looked at the clock again, he witnessed its hands shift to strike 12:00 A.M exactly after his words were spoken.

As it did so, he felt his vision blur, and when he turned to look at Fluixon, his head started to ache. But during this moment, those small inconveniences were nothing compared to the sheer determination Saparata has to utter the sentence he wants Fluixon Aculon to believe in, no matter where he goes to after this moment.

“I love you, Fluixon Theria.” 

For a moment—just a small, fragile moment, Saparata thought he heard a familiar voice, not calling his name, not asking him of anything, just reminding him.

A lesson he had spent fourteen days learning; Love was never meant to be proven by how far someone would chase after it, love was meant to be lived while it was there.

And while Saparata was distracted, Fluixon took the time to utter something back to him, something only his ears will ever have the privilege to hear. 

—

There are some stories that do not end when the clock stops.

Some stories do not end when the miracle disappears, sometimes, they continue in the smallest places—in memories, in old photographs, in the flowers that bloom every year without anyone remembering who planted them.

Sometimes, they also happen in the quiet moments where someone almost turns around because they swear they heard a familiar voice calling their name.

The story of Saparata Theria was never truly about bringing someone back from the dead—It was never about defeating fate, nor was it about proving that love could conquer everything.

Because love was never meant to be a battle;  was never meant to be a bargain, and it was never meant to be measured by how much pain someone could endure.

Saparata spent fourteen days, three hundred thirty-six hours, twenty thousand one hundred sixty minutes, and one million two hundred nine thousand six hundred seconds believing that loving Fluixon meant refusing to lose him.

He believed love was holding on tightly enough that nothing could take him away, but in the end, he learned something far more difficult.

Love was not about holding someone forever, love was about cherishing the time you were given. It was about looking at someone and allowing yourself to say: I see you. I know you. I love you.

Even if tomorrow never comes—especially if tomorrow never comes.

As for Fluixon… perhaps he was the one who understood that all along.

Perhaps that was why, after everything, he did not need grand promises, he did not need miracles, and he did not need proof.

After all, what then could he possibly complain of, except that he had been loved?

Because love had always spoken through Saparata's actions—in every flower placed carefully on the table, in every meal prepared with patience, in every blanket folded before bed, in every quiet sacrifice made without expecting anything in return.

Saparata thought those things went unnoticed, but they never did. Love has a way of finding what words fail to express, and maybe that was why, in the end, the last thing Fluixon gave him was not an answer, not a promise, and definitely not a goodbye.

Only words meant for Saparata alone—a final secret, a final piece of a love that had existed long before the bargain, long before the wedding, long before the loss and long before the impossible miracle.

Whether Fluixon Theria remained beside him after midnight or whether he became another memory Saparata carried for the rest of his life...only Saparata Theria knew.

Perhaps that was the point, because some love stories are not defined by how long they last. They are defined by how deeply they are felt, and perhaps, somewhere beyond time and endings, Saparata Theria will always be there to  remember the boy who grew beside him, the man who chose him, and the person who taught him that love was never about chasing what was lost.

It was about appreciating what was found, because to love someone is to carry them with you; To miss them. To remember them. To cherish every moment you were given.

And when the world asks you to move forward, when everything tells you to keep walking, sometimes love asks only one thing:

Look back.