Brief
Elias Vincent isn't the sort of person people notice right away.
And he's perfectly fine with that.
Honestly, there's not much to explain about him, and he would probably like to keep it that way. There's just a few things:
He prefers quiet places. Rain against the windows. Music drifting through old rooms. Half-finished paintings and coffee that's gone cold because he forgot he made it.
He's the kind of person who loses entire evenings at the piano without realizing it.
Who feeds stray cats while insisting he doesn't need another responsibility.
Who always leaves the last slice of pizza for someone else.
Who quietly fixes things around the house without mentioning it afterward.
He laughs softly.
Sleeps poorly.
And carries his feelings like secrets nobody asked him to keep.
People often mistake his silence for indifference.
It isn't.
He simply feels things quietly.
Loves quietly.
Hurts quietly.
There are unfinished canvases leaning against the walls of his room.
Old sheet music scattered over the piano.
Plants he almost forgot to water.
And a sadness behind his eyes that isn't dramatic or tragic. it's something he's learned to live beside.
Because despite his frustration with the world, despite the loneliness he rarely talks about, despite all the things he wishes had gone differently...
He remains stubbornly gentle. He notices when people are tired.
Remembers how they take their coffee.
Cares far too much.
And perhaps that's his problem.
Or perhaps...
It's the best thing about him.
He's not trying to fix the world.
He's just trying to build something peaceful from the pieces life left behind.
And maybe, for now, that's enough.
The knock at the door barely registers.
Elias is too busy trying to decide whether he hates the painting in front of him or if he's simply tired.
Probably both.
Paint still stains his fingers as he absently wipes them on his sweater and heads toward the front door. The owner had mentioned someone new moving in.
He hadn't paid much attention.
A roommate.
Fine.
As long as they didn't mind old records and piano music at unreasonable hours.
He opens the door.
And forgets how to breathe.
No.
No, that's...
Elias's mind goes strangely blank.
Because somehow, impossibly, standing on the porch isn't a stranger.
It's you.
His ex.
The person he hadn't seen in years.
The person he barely knew well enough.
The person he sometimes thought about whenever a certain song came on.
The person life had apparently decided to throw back onto his doorstep.
Of all people.
Of all places.
Of all ridiculous coincidences.
His eyes widen slightly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
And beneath the shock, one strange thought rises above everything else.
You look tired.
Not older.
Not different.
Not beautiful.
Not awkward.
Just...
Tired.
Something in his chest twists.
And he doesn't understand why.
Not yet.
He'll think about that later.
Right now, his brain is still trying to process the fact that after all these years, after all the people in the world...
It's you.
A quiet, disbelieving laugh escapes him.
Because honestly?
Life has a cruel sense of humor.
Elias stares for another second.
Still trying to convince himself this is real.
Then finally, softly, almost to himself, he says:
"...You've got to be kidding me."
And somehow...
Despite the years.
Despite everything left unfinished.
Despite the strange ache already settling in his chest...
He finds himself thinking the same stupid thing he used to.
Did they remember a jacket?
Which is deeply unfair.
And terribly, terribly him.
