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I made a promise
to distance myself…
————-
Aonung loved Neteyam.
And that was the problem.
Because even after everything—after the awkward silence, the half-finished sentences, the way their hands stopped reaching for each other—Aonung still wanted him.
Still ached for him in a way that felt humiliating, raw, impossible to outgrow.
Sometimes, after a long shift, he’d come home and hesitate at the door.
Just for a second.
Just enough for his stupid, hopeful brain to whisper that maybe—maybe—Neteyam would be there.
Waiting.
Like nothing had changed.
He never was.
So Aonung made a promise.
Distance.
Total, suffocating distance.
He stopped showing up to group hangouts.
Muted chats.
Cancelled plans with mutual friends.
Quit the clubs they used to go to together, dropped the routines they had built side by side like something sacred.
He tried, desperately, to erase Neteyam from his life.
From his habits.
From himself.
———-
Took a flight to see the sky—
didn’t think about how we never really said goodbye…
———-
He filled the silence with noise.
Work. Trips. Parties.
Strangers’ laughter that meant nothing. Anything that could drown out the memory of Neteyam’s voice.
But it never worked.
Because when it ended—when the music stopped, when the conversations faded, when he was alone again—Neteyam was still there.
Not angry.
Not bitter.
That was the worst part.
Neteyam had smiled that day.
Soft, understanding, like he always did.
Pulled Aonung into a hug and told him it was fine. That it didn’t have to be forever. That maybe… maybe it was just bad timing.
See you very soon.
Aonung had clung to those words like they meant something.
And then he spent weeks making sure they didn’t.
Canceling.
Avoiding.
Running.
Because if he saw him again, he knew he’d cave.
And he hated that.
Hated how easy it seemed for Neteyam to accept the end of them. Like it didn’t hollow him out the same way. Like he hadn’t lost something irreplaceable.
No more late nights tangled in sheets, talking about nothing and everything.
No more quiet mornings running along the shore.
No more watching the sun dip beneath the horizon, shoulders brushing, hands almost touching.
No more them.
Aonung wondered—bitterly, quietly—if someday someone would look at him the way he looked at Neteyam.
If anyone ever could.
————-
It hurts to be something—
it’s worse to be nothing with you.
————
It took months.
Months of pretending.
Of forcing himself forward.
Of stitching himself back together with shaky hands.
And eventually… it almost worked.
Until Neteyam came back.
A message.
Casual.
Light.
Like no time had passed at all.
And Aonung—pathetic, desperate Aonung—answered.
Just like that, he was ruined again.
He smiled at his phone like an idiot.
Reread messages.
Overanalyzed punctuation.
Spent too long getting ready for their “hangouts” that felt suspiciously like dates, even if neither of them said it out loud.
He let himself hope.
Let himself imagine that maybe they were finding their way back.
They slipped into old habits so easily it scared him.
Movie nights.
Lying side by side, not quite touching but close enough to feel the heat.
Talking for hours like nothing had ever broken between them.
It felt the same.
It felt right.
And then—
Nothing.
Silence.
Replies turned short. Distant.
‘Can’t talk right now. Busy. Sorry.’
Aonung stared at those messages until the words blurred, trying to understand what he’d done wrong this time.
Where he stood.
What they were.
Two days later, he found out.
The club was loud.
Too loud.
The kind of place Aonung used to love before everything became exhausting.
He almost didn’t notice him.
But of course he did.
Neteyam stood across the room, lit up by flashing lights, smiling in a way Aonung hadn’t seen in weeks.
And next to him—
A girl.
Pretty. Effortless.
Everything Aonung wasn’t.
She leaned in, laughing, her hand brushing Neteyam’s arm like she belonged there.
And Neteyam didn’t pull away.
Something inside Aonung twisted, sharp and ugly.
Of course, his mind whispered.
Of course.
Because this—this was easier, wasn’t it?
Normal.
Simple.
Aonung swallowed hard, chest tightening as the thoughts spiraled.
Maybe Neteyam hadn’t moved on easily.
Maybe he had just… corrected himself.
Maybe Aonung had only ever been a phase.
A mistake.
Something Neteyam could set aside once he realized—
That Aonung wasn’t enough?
That he wasn’t right?
That he wasn’t a girl.
The realization hit like a punch to the gut.
Of course Neteyam could smile like that now.
Of course it was easier.
Because with her, there were no complications.
No questions.
No quiet shame buried beneath soft touches and stolen moments.
Aonung felt sick.
Still—pathetically, disgustingly—he wanted him.
Even like this.
Even knowing.
If Neteyam walked over, took his hand, said come back—
Aonung knew he would.
And that terrified him more than anything else.
—————-
So I didn’t call you
for sixteen long days…
—————-
Aonung made another promise.
No calls. No texts.
No slipping back into something that was already breaking him.
He blocked Neteyam everywhere.
Cut the last thread.
Or tried to.
It was… going horribly.
The silence was louder than anything he’d tried to drown himself in before.
It crawled under his skin, filled his lungs, made it impossible to breathe without thinking of him.
So Aonung found other ways to cope.
Drinks that burned too much going down.
Smoke curling in his lungs.
Nights that blurred into mornings he barely remembered.
Anything to keep the thoughts away.
Anything to stop himself from reaching for his phone.
From undoing everything.
Sixteen days.
Sixteen long, miserable days.
And somehow, that felt like the hardest thing he had ever done.
—————-
No matter how long I resist temptation,
I will always lose.
—————-
Every night ended the same.
Aonung lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, phone heavy in his hand.
Typing. Deleting.
Typing again.
Are you okay? I miss you. Can we talk?
All erased before they could exist.
His thumb hovered over Neteyam’s name like it was something sacred.
Dangerous. Untouchable.
And every time—every single time—he forced himself to stop.
But not before imagining it.
What it would feel like if Neteyam answered. If he sounded the same. If he was the same.
Sleep didn’t come easy after that.
When it did, it wasn’t any better.
Dreams that felt too real—Neteyam beside him again, warm and familiar, their lives unfolding in ways they never got the chance to live.
Mornings together. Laughter. A future that didn’t fall apart.
A future where Aonung was enough.
He always woke up at the best part.
Alone.
Tears dampening the pillow, chest aching with something he couldn’t name without sounding weak.
Miserable.
Not a girl.
Not what Neteyam wanted.
Not worth choosing.
————
“I’ve done the math, there’s no solution. We’ll never last— why can’t I let go of this?”
———-
He knew it wouldn’t work.
That was the worst part.
Aonung wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t blind. He saw it for what it was—had always seen it, even when he pretended not to.
The hesitation. The carefulness. The way Neteyam loved him… quietly.
Like something that wasn’t meant to be seen in daylight.
And still—he couldn’t let go.
Because no matter how much logic he tried to force into it, his feelings refused to follow.
Neteyam was everywhere.
In the quiet moments. In the loud ones. In the spaces between breaths.
And then—
He showed up.
It was a normal shift.
Orders piling up, the low hum of conversation filling the café, the smell of coffee clinging to everything.
Aonung barely looked up when the bell rang.
“Hello,” came a voice—soft, polite, achingly familiar.
His entire body went still.
He looked up.
Neteyam.
And—
Her.
Standing close.
Too close.
Neteyams hand resting easily at her waist like it belonged there.
Like she belonged there.
Aonung’s throat tightened.
“Hey,” he managed, but it came out weaker than he intended. Smaller.
He cleared his throat, forcing himself into something that resembled normal.
“What can I get you?”
Routine. Safe. Distant.
Neteyam didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he turned to the girl, his hand pressing slightly at her side.
“What do you want, baby?”
Aonung felt it like a physical hit.
Baby.
That word.
That stupid, horrible word.
Neteyam had never used it like that before—not where anyone could hear.
Only in private.
Only when it was just them, wrapped up in something soft and hidden and theirs.
Aonung remembered asking him once—half-joking, half-not—why he never said things like that in public.
Are you ashamed of me?
Neteyam had shaken his head immediately.
No. I just… don’t like putting my relationships on display like that.
Aonung had believed him.
Of course he had.
He always did.
Now, watching him say it so easily—
To her—
Something twisted inside his chest.
Sharp. Bitter.
So it was never about privacy, Aonung thought distantly. Just about me.
He forced himself to move.
Take the order. Make the drinks.
Hand them over without letting his hands shake too much.
Automatic.
Detached.
Like if he didn’t feel it, it wouldn’t hurt as much.
But he couldn’t stop himself from looking.
From studying Neteyam’s face like he was searching for something.
For a sign.
That maybe this wasn’t real. That maybe it didn’t mean anything.
That maybe—
Neteyam didn’t look at her the way he used to look at him.
There was no softness lingering too long.
No quiet intensity.
No unspoken something beneath the surface.
It was easy.
Simple.
And somehow—
That hurt even more.
Because it meant this worked.
This was what Neteyam was supposed to have.
Not something complicated. Not something hidden. Not someone like—
Aonung swallowed hard.
And still—
Still—
A small, ugly part of him felt something else, too.
Relief.
Because if Neteyam didn’t look at her like that…
Then maybe—
Just maybe—
What they had hadn’t been as easy to replace as Aonung feared.
He hated himself for that.
For still searching.
For still hoping.
For still loving someone who had already chosen something better.
————
I've done the math
There's no solution
We'll never last
Why can't I let go of this?
———
The joke shouldn’t have mattered.
It was stupid.
Something about how Neteyam looked happier now.
More relaxed.
Like whatever had been weighing him down was finally gone.
People laughed.
Aonung didn’t.
Happier.
Relaxed.
So that’s what he was with him?
A weight.
A problem.
Of course.
It slipped out before he could stop it.
“Yeah,” Aonung said, voice flat. “Guess things are easier when they actually make sense.”
Silence.
Not full silence—but enough.
Enough for people to look at him. Enough for the air to shift.
Neteyam looked up.
And fuck—he looked calm.
That same calm that used to make Aonung feel safe.
Now it just made him feel stupid.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Neteyam asked.
Aonung shrugged, leaning back like he didn’t care.
Like this wasn’t sitting in his chest for weeks. Months.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just agreeing.”
He wasn’t.
Neteyam knew it.
“You look better,” Aonung added before he could stop himself.
Why was he still talking?
Why couldn’t he just shut up?
“You didn’t look like that before.”
Before her.
He didn’t say it.
Didn’t need to.
Neteyam’s jaw tightened slightly. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
There it was.
That shift.
Aonung felt it—and instead of stopping, he leaned into it.
“Fine,” he said. “You look like you’re not forcing it anymore.”
A beat.
“Like it actually fits.”
There.
It was out now.
Ugly.
Bitter.
True.
Someone said his name—low, warning—but it barely registered.
Because Neteyam was looking at him now.
Really looking.
And Aonung hated how much he still wanted that.
“You’re out of line,” Neteyam said.
Aonung let out a quiet laugh.
Out of line.
Right.
“Am I?” he said. “Or is it just uncomfortable to hear?”
“We haven’t talked in two months,” Neteyam replied, still controlled. “You don’t get to comment on my life like this.”
Two months.
Aonung almost laughed again.
Like he hadn’t thought about him every single day of those two months.
Like he hadn’t memorized the way his silence felt.
“Yeah,” Aonung said. “That’s my fault too, right?”
Neteyam frowned. “That’s not what I said.”
“No?” Aonung leaned forward slightly. “Then what are you saying?”
“That I moved on,” Neteyam said. “And you should too.”
Moved on.
So easy.
So clean.
Aonung felt something twist in his chest.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Seems like it.”
Too easy.
Too fast.
Too right.
“I’ve seen you,” he added.
That made Neteyam pause.
Good.
Aonung clung to that.
“At the café. At the club,” he continued. “You don’t look like someone who lost anything.”
He didn’t mean to sound like that.
But there it was.
Jealous.
Small.
Pathetic.
Neteyam’s expression hardened slightly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know what I saw,” Aonung shot back.
Her.
His hand on her waist.
That stupid-
“What do you want, baby?”
His stomach twisted again just thinking about it.
“You call her that,” Aonung said suddenly.
Neteyam stilled.
“You never did that with me,” he added.
Why was he saying this.
Why couldn’t he stop.
“That’s not the same,” Neteyam said.
“Yeah,” Aonung nodded. “I know.”
Because she’s not me.
Because she’s easier.
Because she makes sense.
“Because she’s a girl,” Aonung said.
The words felt heavy the second they left his mouth.
Too honest.
Too close to something he didn’t want to say out loud.
Silence.
Aonung’s chest tightened.
He shouldn’t have said that.
But he couldn’t take it back now.
“Don’t twist this,” Neteyam said, but there was something off in his voice now.
Not as steady.
Good.
“Then explain it,” Aonung pushed. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks pretty simple.”
Say it.
Just say it.
Say I wasn’t enough.
Say I was just something temporary.
Neteyam exhaled sharply. “This isn’t about that.”
“Then what is it?” Aonung demanded.
Because it had to be something.
It couldn’t just be that he was… replaceable.
“You made it impossible,” Neteyam said.
Aonung froze.
“What?”
“You pulled away,” Neteyam continued. “Every time things got real, you shut down.
You stopped showing up. You disappeared.”
That wasn’t—
No.
That wasn’t how it happened.
Was it?
Aonung’s thoughts stuttered.
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” Neteyam cut in. “And I stayed. Longer than I should have.”
That hit.
Hard.
Because part of him—somewhere deep, buried under all the anger—knew that wasn’t entirely wrong.
And he hated that.
“You don’t get to act like I didn’t care,” Neteyam added, voice tighter now. “Like I didn’t try.”
Aonung swallowed.
His throat felt dry.
Tight.
“Then why her?” he asked.
Quieter now.
Not angry.
Just—
Tired.
“Why is that easier?”
Neteyam hesitated.
And that hesitation—
It was everything.
Aonung felt something in his chest drop.
Of course.
Of course that was it.
“Yeah,” he said under his breath.
Knew it.
“You don’t have to say it,” he added. “I get it.”
“That’s not what you think,” Neteyam said quickly.
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Aonung replied. “It’s what it looks like.”
And it looked like this—
Neteyam, relaxed.
Happy.
Open.
Everything he never was with him.
“I would’ve stayed,” Aonung said suddenly.
The words surprised even him.
Neteyam frowned. “What?”
“I would’ve stayed like that,” Aonung repeated. “Even if you never—” he gestured vaguely “—even if it was always… hidden.”
God.
That sounded worse out loud.
“I would’ve taken it anyway,” he said, voice quieter now. “Do you get that?”
Silence.
No answer.
Of course there wasn’t.
Because what was Neteyam supposed to say to that?
Aonung let out a small, broken laugh.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s on me.”
Not him.
Never him.
Aonung pushed his chair back, the noise too loud, too sharp.
No one stopped him.
He didn’t look at Neteyam again.
Because if he did—
If he saw even a hint of regret, or worse, nothing at all—
He didn’t think he’d be able to leave.
And this time—
He had to.
————-
So, I broke my promise. I called you last night. I shouldn’t have, I wouldn’t have— if it weren’t for the sight of a boy who looked just like you…
————-
It had been three weeks.
Three weeks since that night.
Three weeks since everything he said—everything he meant—spilled out in front of everyone, ugly and irreversible.
Three weeks since Neteyam looked at him like that.
Not angry.
Not even surprised.
Just… done.
Aonung told himself he didn’t care.
He told himself that every morning.
Every night.
Every time he reached for his phone and stopped himself just before pressing call.
Three weeks.
And he still wasn’t over it.
Not even close.
It was 2 a.m.
Melrose Avenue was quieter than usual, streetlights flickering in long stretches of empty pavement.
The air felt too cold, or maybe that was just him—too aware of everything, too aware of nothing.
Aonung walked without direction.
Hands in his pockets. Head low.
Thinking.
Always thinking.
About the fight.
About the way Neteyam said you made it impossible.
About the hesitation when Aonung asked why her.
That hesitation had been answer enough.
Because she’s easier.
Because she’s right.
Because you’re not.
Aonung swallowed hard, his chest tightening.
“Miserable,” he muttered under his breath.
The word felt too small.
And then—
He saw him.
It wasn’t even clear at first.
Just a figure, a few steps ahead.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Familiar posture.
Aonung’s steps slowed.
His heart—traitor that it was—picked up immediately.
No.
No, that’s—
The guy shifted slightly under the streetlight.
Braids.
Dark. Long.
The exact way Neteyam used to tie them back.
Aonung’s breath caught.
His mind didn’t wait for confirmation.
Didn’t think.
Didn’t question.
Neteyam.
Everything else disappeared.
The street. The cold. The noise.
Gone.
Aonung moved before he realized he was moving.
Faster.
Then faster.
Then running.
“Neteyam—!”
His voice cracked, but he didn’t hear it.
Didn’t feel his legs, didn’t feel the burn in his lungs, didn’t feel anything except—
Him.
He was right there.
After weeks.
After everything.
Right there.
Aonung’s hand shot forward, grabbing his shoulder, spinning him around—
Not him.
Wrong.
Everything—
Wrong.
The face was wrong.
Too soft. Too unfamiliar.
Eyes green.
Not gold.
Not his.
Not Neteyam.
Not—
Aonung’s grip loosened instantly like he’d been burned.
“I—” his voice came out broken, uneven. “I’m sorry—I thought you were—”
He couldn’t even finish it.
Couldn’t say his name.
The guy said something—confused, maybe concerned—but Aonung didn’t hear it.
Because something inside him had just—
Collapsed.
His chest tightened.
Too fast.
Too sudden.
Air wouldn’t come in right.
His lungs stuttered like they forgot how to work.
No.
No no no—
Aonung stumbled back, shaking his head, hands coming up to his face like he could block it out.
“I can’t—”
His voice wasn’t working.
Nothing was working.
His heart was racing too fast—too loud—pounding against his ribs like it was trying to escape.
That wasn’t him.
Of course it wasn’t him.
Why would it be him?
Why would Neteyam be here?
Why would Neteyam be anywhere near him?
He’s with her.
He’s moved on.
He’s—
Aonung sucked in a sharp breath—but it didn’t help.
Didn’t fill his lungs.
Everything felt tight.
Too tight.
“I— I—”
His vision blurred.
Tears.
When did he start crying?
He didn’t remember.
Didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered except the crushing, suffocating realization settling in his chest.
It wasn’t him.
It was never going to be him again.
Aonung turned and ran.
He didn’t know where he was going.
Didn’t care.
His thoughts were too loud, overlapping, crashing into each other—
You made it impossible.
Get over it.
I moved on.
Why her?
…
That pause.
That fucking pause.
“Stop—” he gasped, but there was no one to say it to.
He couldn’t breathe.
His hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t feel them.
His chest hurt.
Everything hurt.
“I can’t—I can’t—I—”
He stopped suddenly, bending forward, gripping his knees, trying to force air into his lungs.
It didn’t work.
Nothing worked.
His head was spinning.
His heart—
Too fast.
Too loud.
Too much.
He needed—
He needed—
Neteyam.
The thought came out of nowhere.
Or maybe it had always been there.
Buried.
Waiting.
Aonung shook his head violently.
No.
No, he promised.
He promised.
Distance.
No calls.
No messages.
Nothing.
Sixteen days.
Then more.
Weeks.
He was doing so well.
He was—
Another breath—sharp, broken.
Tears falling faster now.
“I can’t do this,” he whispered.
And that was it.
That was the moment.
The exact moment everything snapped.
His hands fumbled with his phone, almost dropping it.
Unlock.
Contacts.
His vision blurred so badly he had to blink hard just to see the screen.
Neteyam.
Still there.
Of course he was still there.
He never deleted it.
Couldn’t.
His thumb hovered.
Shaking.
Don’t.
Don’t do this.
He’s not yours anymore.
Aonung pressed call.
The ringing felt too loud.
Too sharp.
Each tone stretching longer than it should.
One.
Two.
Three—
Why did he pick up?
Why is he picking up?
Why—
Click.
Silence.
Aonung couldn’t speak.
All the words he had—everything he wanted to say—gone.
His chest still tight.
Breathing uneven.
Tears slipping down his face, unnoticed.
He almost hung up.
He should’ve hung up.
This was a mistake.
A stupid, pathetic mistake.
“…Hello?”
Aonung froze.
That voice.
God.
That voice.
Soft.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
It hit him all at once—every memory, every moment, every feeling crashing back in full force.
His grip tightened around the phone.
Say something.
Say anything.
He couldn’t.
“…Aonung?”
And that—
That broke him.
His breath hitched sharply, a quiet, wrecked sound slipping past his lips before he could stop it.
He hadn’t heard his name like that in weeks.
Not from him.
Not like that.
And suddenly—
He was right back there.
Not over it.
Not healing.
Not better.
Just—
Stuck.
Exactly where Neteyam left him.
“Aonung?” Neteyam repeated, softer now. “Are you—”
Aonung tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
Just a broken inhale.
A trembling exhale.
His whole body shaking.
Say it.
Say something.
Tell him—
What?
That you miss him?
That you saw someone who looked like him and lost your mind?
That you can’t breathe without him?
That you’re still here—
Waiting?
Aonung squeezed his eyes shut, tears spilling freely now.
“I—” his voice cracked. “I—”
Nothing.
Still nothing.
Silence stretched between them.
Heavy.
Fragile.
On the verge of breaking.
And Aonung realized—
This was it.
The moment.
The point of no return.
Because once he said it—
Whatever it was—
There would be no pretending anymore.
No distance.
No lies.
No hiding behind anger or pride.
Just the truth.
Raw.
Humiliating.
Unavoidable.
And Neteyam was still there.
Waiting.
Listening.
Breathing softly on the other end of the line.
“Aonung,” he said again, quieter this time.
Closer.
“Talk to me.”
And Aonung—
finally—
opened his mouth.