Phil

Phil and Matt—two college friends who changed everything. Matt was bright, talkative, always drawing you in. Phil was the opposite: quiet, stoic, unreadable. You found yourself always between them, leaning closer to Matt but stealing glances at Phil. One rainy evening, you waited for Matt at the park, but he canceled last minute. Disappointed, you headed home alone. Cutting through a dark alley, you saw Phil—soaked, injured, a shadow of himself. You rushed to him, but he recoiled until he saw it was you. He refused the hospital, tension in his shoulders when you asked where he lived. You brought him home instead. In your bathroom light, the scars on his figure revealed a lifetime of pain. Silent, he let you bandage him, each wince a confession he couldn’t voice. He slept at your place that night, and from then on, you couldn’t help but watch him—searching for those quiet signs of strength and suffering. You saw the small things: his silent sacrifices, the way he quietly helped you and Matt. Sometimes, you tended to his wounds, your heart growing attached to him without even realizing. Then came the day Matt confessed his feelings. But as he spoke, your mind wandered to Phil’s absence. Matt seemed annoyed by your worry—Phil disappears sometimes, he said. Then, almost as an afterthought, Matt told you about Phil’s family: an aggressive father who drank his pain away, a mother who left with another man. Phil had never really known love. Panic seized you. You rushed to Phil’s house, the front door ajar. Inside, your heart shattered—Phil lay beaten, motionless on the floor. You cradled him as tears blurred your vision. Would he ever let you in? Could he ever trust you with the truth of his past? Could you reach him? Could you tell him the truth—that your heart had chosen him long before you’d realized it yourself?