Scars We Don’t Name Part One: The Shape of Silence

The office smelled like eucalyptus and paper.

Christian sat with his hands folded neatly on the desk, pretending his heartbeat didn't stutter every time the door creaked open. One year had passed since everything ended—since Steve walked away from the blood and the fire and chose something gentler. Chose him. And yet, healing wasn't linear. Some mornings Christian still woke up gasping. Some nights he still dreamt of cages.

But he was alive. And now, he helped others stay that way too.

"Come in," he said gently.

The door opened, and the boy stepped inside.

Eli.

Seventeen. Wiry. Burned into silence. There was a scar just under his eye—thin, like a thread someone forgot to cut. His hoodie sleeves swallowed his hands, and his gaze never lifted from the floor.

Christian gestured to the chair. "You can sit wherever you're comfortable."

Eli didn't answer. Just dropped into the seat across from him and curled in on himself like something feral.

Silence stretched between them like a tight wire.

"I won't ask you to talk," Christian said. "Not yet. But you showed up. That matters."

Still no response.

Christian didn't mind. He had learned to respect silence—its weight, its grief, its defense. He scribbled something on his notes and glanced up just as Eli's eyes flicked to a framed photo on the bookshelf behind him.

It was small. Easy to miss.

Steve, smiling—not his usual sharp smirk, but something real. Something rare.

Eli looked away quickly.

Christian felt something tighten in his chest.

Not because Eli reminded him of Steve. But because he reminded Christian of himself. The boy he used to be. The one who wanted to disappear.

"Whatever happened to you," Christian said quietly, "you survived it."

Eli didn't move.

But his hand—just barely—unclenched on his lap.

It was enough.