That night, he saved my heart.
Liana
After the short workout, I lay on my bed, heart still pounding.
Not from the squats.
From something else.
I stared at the ceiling.
The same one I'd stared at a thousand times.
Five years ago, I couldn't even step into this room without scanning every corner for traps.
I was broken at every level.
I didn't have a home.
Didn't have a family to return to.
I didn't try to heal.
Didn't even bother talking to him.
The man who practically gave up his private life to help me.
Elias never pushed.
Never asked me to say more than I wanted.
He just left the same breakfast on the table.
Every morning.
Toast. A boiled egg. A cup of milk I never touched.
He never asked why.
He never told me to eat faster.
He never opened my door without knocking.
He wasn't warm.
He was consistent.
And somehow… that was warmer than anything I'd ever known.
I remember his face when I finally told him I was lactose intolerant.
I think that was the first full sentence I ever said to him, other than "yes" or "no."
His face was funny. Blank. Confused. A little horrified.
Like the milk had personally betrayed him.
You don't get that kind of face from Elias often.
But I couldn't let him keep wasting milk after a month.
The next morning, there was soy milk on the table.
He said he heard that's Chinese milk.
It was. I didn't know how he got it.
He's done so much for me.
More than he should have.
Because he's a good person.
Too good.
And I'm his responsibility…
Right?
I got sick once during that first year.
Really sick.
It hit out of nowhere— A fever so high I couldn't sit up.
I thought I'd just sleep it off.
But the shaking didn't stop.
The room kept spinning.
I remember trying to crawl to the bathroom, but my legs gave out halfway.
The floor was cold.
I don't remember how long I lay there.
When I opened my eyes again, I was in bed.
Sweaty. Wrapped in blankets.
My face hurt. My head throbbed.
Elias was sitting next to the bed.
Not asleep.
Not scrolling his phone.
Just… sitting.
Watching. Waiting.
Like he'd been doing it for hours.
There was a towel in his lap.
A glass of water beside him.
He noticed me blinking and leaned in.
Didn't touch me.
Didn't smile.
"You're okay," he said.
Not soft. Not loud. Just steady.
Like he was reminding me.
Like I'd forgotten.
He stayed there all night.
Every time I opened my eyes, he was still there.
Sometimes reading.
Sometimes just staring into space.
Sometimes on the phone with the doctor.
But always there.
He changed the towel when I started to sweat through it.
Put a cold one on my forehead.
Helped me sit up to drink water when my throat burned.
He even fed me—quietly, like it was no big deal.
And when I threw it all up ten minutes later, he didn't flinch.
He just sighed.
Cleaned everything.
Helped me change into a fresh shirt.
Didn't say a word about the mess.
Didn't make me feel ashamed.
I remember thinking, If he left the room—even just for a minute— I might stop breathing.
But he never left.
Not once.
That night, something in me cracked.
Something small.
Something silent.
It didn't make me better.
Didn't fix the damage.
But I think it was the first time I wanted to get better.
For real.
Not because I owed it to anyone.
Not because healing was some kind of goal.
Just because…
Someone was willing to sit next to me through the worst of it.
And that made me want to try.
When I woke up the next morning, he was still there.
Same chair. Same towel. Same eyes.
But when he saw me sit up on my own, he finally exhaled.
And smiled.
Just barely.
But it was real.
I didn't smile back.
Didn't know how to, yet.
But I remember that moment.
I remember thinking—
This man doesn't belong in my story.
He's too kind.
Too patient.
Too careful.
But he's here.
And I think that's the first time I ever felt safe.