As time passed, their bond deepened. It wasn't just the hugs, the dates, or the little surprises anymore—it was in the conversations. The real ones. The kind that tugged at the heart.
Elara found herself wanting to know more. More than just his favorite color or what songs he liked. She wanted to know what shaped him—what broke him, what built him.
They lay in bed one afternoon, faces turned to the ceiling, silence stretched between them. Then she asked:
"How many exes do you have?"
Zeon chuckled at first, but then his expression turned serious. "More than five."
"Why so many?" she asked, gently.
His reply was quiet. "I was in love once. Deeply. She broke my heart. After that, I just… stopped caring. I didn't let myself fall again. I dated, but I didn't love. It didn't matter if she loved me or not—as long as I didn't feel anything, I couldn't get hurt."
That answer stayed with Elara.
She reached over and held his hand.
"What about growing up? How was it?"
Zeon took a breath. "Complicated. I lived with my father for a while. We moved a lot. Place to place. I didn't feel settled, didn't feel safe. Eventually, I left and came back to my mom."
She squeezed his hand. "Was it better with her?"
He nodded, slowly. "Still hard. She worked a lot. I had to grow up fast. I'd go to school in the morning, then work during lunch breaks. Sometimes I didn't even go back to school after lunch. There was always something that needed to be done."
Elara stared at him, heart heavy.
She realized her life—though far from perfect—was easier than his. She didn't have to work during school. She wasn't passed from house to house. She had stability. And in that moment, she saw him in a different light. Not just as a boyfriend—but as someone who had survived more than he let on.
His eyes were tired.
He didn't cry.
But she could feel the pain lingering behind them.
She wanted to cry on his behalf. To take that pain away. But tears wouldn't change his past.
So she made a promise to herself.
If she couldn't erase the damage, she would help heal it.
She started doing little things. They'd go to the park and swing like kids. She'd randomly chase him on the grass just to make him laugh. Sometimes, she'd sneak up and kiss his cheek just to see him blush like a shy boy.
When he needed a hug, she gave him one before he could ask.
When he went silent, she held his hand.
She wanted to give him the childhood he never had. The softness he didn't know he deserved.
Because sometimes love isn't loud or flashy.
Sometimes it's showing up, quietly.
Sometimes it's healing someone's inner child with moments of joy.
And that's exactly what she did.
---
In the days that followed, Elara found herself asking more questions. Not to dig into wounds—but to understand them. There was a difference between being nosy and being present. She wanted to be the latter.
They talked about his favorite childhood memory—there weren't many.
"There was this time I found a toy car under the couch. No one knew where it came from. I thought it was magic," he laughed. "Played with it until the wheels came off."
They talked about what scared him—losing people he loved. Being seen as weak. Becoming like the people who hurt him.
They talked about his dreams—starting his own business, buying his mom a house, raising kids who'd never know hunger or fear.
And Elara listened. Not just with her ears, but with her heart.
She started planning small dates that had nothing to do with money. A blanket and some snacks in the park. A notebook where they wrote letters to each other, even when they were in the same room. She'd bring balloons for no reason. He'd wake up to find her notes in his hoodie pocket.
"You deserve soft things," she told him one day.
"I don't know what to do with soft," he admitted.
"Learn," she whispered. "With me."
---
One afternoon, they visited a children's home to donate old clothes and snacks. Zeon didn't say much, but Elara could tell it moved him. He sat down and played with the younger kids, building blocks and drawing stick figures. He looked like someone trying to rebuild a part of himself.
That night, he held her closer than usual.
"You know what's crazy?" he said.
"What?"
"I used to think no one would ever love me for real."
She turned toward him. "And now?"
"I'm starting to believe you do."
She smiled, kissed his forehead, and replied, "I always have."
---
They weren't perfect. They still argued. There were still moments he'd pull away. Times she'd get frustrated. But they always came back to each other. Because love wasn't about not falling—it was about choosing to get back up.
Zeon started opening up more with his friends, setting boundaries, making better decisions. Elara began journaling more, creating a routine, and choosing peace over proving points.
They grew.
Together.
And sometimes, in the middle of a random conversation or a quiet Sunday morning, she'd look at him and think:
Healing is hard. But loving someone while they heal? That's even harder. And still—worth it.
Because healing his inner child didn't mean fixing everything. It meant giving him a safe space to rest.
And that's what Elara became.
His rest.
His reminder that he didn't have to carry the world alone.
His home.