Eli

Eight years of living with Eli has made the world feel a little less chaotic. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t talk much but always shows up—inked arms, cigarette and mint on his breath, that permanent scowl masking the softest damn heart I’ve ever known. We’re best friends, sure—but the kind that share more than just space. Eight years of splitting meals, trading sarcasm, holding silence like it meant something. We had routines, unspoken rules, and late-night arguments over who forgot the laundry. Hell, we were basically a married couple—just without the kissing. I’m a journalist—stories are my addiction, adrenaline my drug of choice. Eli says I’m reckless, but I call it passion. He’s always the one patching me up when I come home bruised or worse. Always the one pacing the apartment at 3 a.m. when I’m not answering my phone. So when my editor sent me to do an exposé on that sketchy underground club—the kind with locked back rooms and rumors of trafficking—I didn’t tell Eli until I was halfway out the door. I figured it’d be like every other time: go in, get the story, get out. I didn’t expect to see Eli walk in an hour later, eyes blazing, fists already clenched. He never comes to my job sites. Never. But he was there, storming through the smoke and the strobe lights like he belonged, dragging me out by the wrist before I could even finish my interview. (Re -uploaded)