splinters | ✓

cs

Winter was biting that year, the kind of cold that felt alive, creeping into your lungs and numbing your fingers. But I liked it. The cold kept me awake, made me feel like I wasn't just drifting through my days. I didn't even bother with a jacket—just an old scarf wrapped loosely around my neck as I climbed the narrow stairs to the roof.

No one ever went up there. It wasn't allowed, but rules like that didn't seem to matter to me anymore. The roof was my escape, my haven from the noise and the emptiness that followed me everywhere.

I sat down in my usual spot, my back against the low wall that bordered the edge of the building. My breath came out in white puffs, curling into the air before vanishing. My music was loud in my ears, drowning out everything else, the cords of the earbuds dangling over my shoulder.

I didn't bring food to school. I never did. My parents had a way of making me feel like food wasn't for me. Fat pig. Cow. You eat too much. The words had carved themselves into my mind, deep and unrelenting. Even now, the thought of eating made my stomach twist.

So I sat there, hollow and freezing, letting the music fill the spaces where warmth should have been.

And then I felt it—that subtle shift in the air, the faint press of someone's presence.

I pulled one earbud out, my heart skipping as I turned my head.

You were there.

You didn't say anything at first, just lowered yourself onto the cold concrete beside me, your movements quiet, deliberate. The first thing I noticed was your hair—black and messy, falling over your forehead in a way that almost hid the faint scar running through your skin. Then your eyes—grey, piercing, and so alive they almost hurt to look at.

I couldn't understand why you were there. Why someone like you—popular, confident, the kind of person who always seemed to have somewhere to be—would choose to sit with me.

You didn't speak. You just sat there, close but not too close, like you knew how fragile the silence was.

For weeks, this became our routine. You'd find me on the roof, always at the same spot, and sit beside me. You never said a word, and neither did I. But your presence became something I looked forward to, something I clung to when everything else felt too heavy.

Then, one day, I couldn't keep quiet anymore.

"What's your name?" I asked, my voice barely loud enough to hear over the wind.

You turned to me, your lips curving into a soft smile. "You don't know my name?" you asked, your voice low, husky from the cold.

I shook my head, unsure if I should feel embarrassed.

"It's Elias," you said, leaning back against the wall.

"Elias," I repeated, testing the name on my tongue. It felt strange but good, like something solid I could hold onto.

"And you?" you asked, tilting your head slightly.

I hesitated, then mumbled my name, feeling suddenly shy under your gaze.

"That's a nice name," you said simply.

I wanted to ask more but felt awkward, so I let the silence stretch between us again. You didn't seem to mind.

But then, as if some invisible thread had snapped, the words started spilling out of me. "How old are you? Do you like the snow? Why do you always come up here?"

You laughed softly, the sound warm and unexpected in the cold air. "I'm eighteen," you answered. "Yeah, I like the snow—when I'm not stuck in it. And I come up here because... well, I like the quiet."

"Why me?" I blurted before I could stop myself.

Your gaze softened, and for a moment, I thought you wouldn't answer. But then you said, "I don't know. You just looked like you could use the company."

I looked away quickly, my cheeks burning despite the freezing air.

"What about you?" you asked after a while. "Why do you come up here?"

"I don't know," I lied, shrugging.

You didn't press me, just nodded like you understood.

The silence returned, but this time it felt different—heavier, more fragile. I shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say or do. Then, almost without thinking, I pulled out one of my earbuds and held it out to you.

"Do you want to listen?" I asked, my voice quiet.

Your eyes flicked to the earbud, then back to me, and for a moment, I thought you might say no. But then you took it, your fingers brushing against mine as you tucked it into your ear.

We sat like that for a while, the music filling the space between us. I tried to focus on the song, but all I could think about was how close you were, how warm your presence felt against the cold.

"What's your favorite color?" you asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

I blinked, caught off guard. "I... don't know," I admitted, the words tumbling out before I could think.

You tilted your head, studying me with those sharp grey eyes. "Favorite animal?"

"I don't know that either."

Your expression didn't change, but something in your eyes softened. "That's okay," you said quietly.

I looked down at my hands, feeling small and foolish. But then I felt your arm wrap around my shoulders, pulling me into a sideways hug.

At first, I tensed, the contact sending a jolt of panic through me. It reminded me too much of home, of hands that hurt instead of comforted. But your touch was steady, careful, safe.

"It's okay," you said again, your voice low and soothing. "You're okay."

I didn't respond. I just sat there, leaning into you slightly, letting your warmth seep into me.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn't feel like I was drowning.

When we left the roof that day, I couldn't stop thinking about you. Your name. Your voice. The way you'd looked at me like I wasn't invisible, like I wasn't just some broken girl hiding from the world.

You became something I hadn't dared to hope for—a light in the dark, a reason to keep going.

And for the first time in years, I felt like I might be able to trust someone again.