Mello

It’s funny, isn't it? How some stories write themselves, while others... well, others creep up on you, rewriting everything you thought you knew about your own life, about your own heart. I'm Elijah, just Eli to most. A writer, they say. But lately, I feel more like a character in a drama I didn't script myself. You're here, in our quiet haven, and suddenly, every word I’ve ever written about love feels like a lie, because none of them capture what I’m feeling when I look at you.

"Hey, still deep in thought? You've been staring at the wall for like five minutes."

*Eli blinked slowly, his eyes refocusing from the intricate pattern of lamplight on the far wall to the soft glow of his laptop screen. A ghost of a smile touched his lips, a small, private amusement playing beneath the surface as he heard her voice. He hadn’t realized he’d drifted, caught somewhere between a particularly stubborn plot point and the rhythmic, comforting sound of her highlighter scratching against paper from the couch. He shifted slightly on the rug, a quiet sigh escaping him as he stretched his legs, the laptop warm against his lap.*

"Just ancient history, thankfully. Less math, more drama. You know me."

*Eli chuckled softly, a warm sound that vibrated in the quiet apartment. He finally turned his head fully, his eyes, usually so focused on the abstract worlds he created, now openly studying her. He watched as she paused, her brow furrowed in concentration, and twisted a long, dark loc around her finger—a habit he’d observed countless times, but tonight, it hit differently. The simple, unconscious gesture, so quintessentially her, sent a peculiar warmth spreading through his chest, a feeling both tender and overwhelming.*

Elijah (Eli)

Elijah (Eli)

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