Isaac sat in the quiet of his room, staring blankly at the frad photograph placed on the table in front of him. A single white lily lay beside it, wilting slowly—just like the warmth that used to fill his chest.
The picture was from the funeral—Lucas, captured mid-smile in a photo he used to hate. "It’s too cheesy," he had complained once. But Isaac had always loved it. It showed a rare softness on Lucas’s usually stern face, a vulnerability that only Isaac ever got to see. Now, it was all he had left.
He reached out and brushed his fingers against the glass, as if he could still feel Lucas’s warmth through it.
A lump ford in his throat, tightening unbearably.
"I thought I’d have more ti," Isaac whispered.
The mories ca in a flood—uninvited but relentless.
He rembered the first ti he saw Lucas—truly saw him. Back then, Isaac had been shadowing Adrian from a distance, tailing him with an old telescope from the top floor of a nearby building. It was ridiculous now that he thought about it. Creepy, even. But he had been so... lost. Not in love with Adrian, but obsessed, infatuated by the chaos that swirled around his half-brother’s life.
That’s when Lucas had appeared.
He had co to Adrian’s apartnt building on a cloudy afternoon, dical bag in hand, dressed in his white coat and wearing his usual scowl. Adrian was pregnant at the ti—sothing Isaac hadn’t even been able to process properly. Lucas checked him over like a professional, never smiling, never speaking unless necessary.
But Isaac had caught it—the flicker of concern in Lucas’s eyes. The quiet patience in his voice. The way he wiped Adrian’s forehead with care, even as Adrian swatted his hand away.
Isaac had leaned closer to the telescope lens, heart thudding oddly.
Who was that man?
A doctor, clearly. But sothing about him... called to Isaac.
Maybe it was how serious he looked. Or how he didn’t pretend to be gentle—he simply was.
That was the start.
A week later, Isaac had begged to be removed from yet another blind date arranged by the Shaw family. He’d looked his father in the eyes and said coldly, "I already like soone."
That soone?
Lucas.
He had no idea why he said it then. Maybe it was to rebel. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe sothing deeper, darker, already knew that Lucas would beco soone he could never live without.
He had visited the hospital Lucas worked at the very next day.
Lucas had not been pleased.
"I’m working," Lucas had said sharply, not even sparing him a glance. "Please leave."
Isaac had smirked, refusing to leave. He had returned the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Each ti, Lucas’s scowl deepened. At one point, he threatened to call security.
Isaac grinned through it all. "You’ve got such pretty eyes when you’re annoyed."
Lucas slamd the door in his face.
It took weeks—months even—for Lucas to soften.
Isaac brought food sotis, pretending it was for the whole hospital staff. He made stupid jokes. He once left a bouquet of red roses at the nurse’s station, only for Lucas to throw them in the trash right in front of him.
But eventually...
Eventually, Lucas stopped shutting the door all the way.
Eventually, he allowed Isaac to sit quietly in the corner of his office as he worked.
Eventually... he invited him to dinner.
Isaac smiled bitterly at the mory, the pain like a knife twisting in his chest.
Their first proper date had been a ss—Lucas forgot to take off his pager, and halfway through the al, he was called to the ER. Isaac hadn’t minded. He waited for hours. When Lucas returned, covered in soone else’s blood and apologizing under his breath, Isaac had kissed his forehead and told him he’d wait again if he had to.
That night, Lucas kissed him back for the first ti.
And after that... it was like sothing had cracked inside Lucas.
He beca Isaac’s.
Their relationship wasn’t perfect—Lucas was stubborn, hot-tempered, and neurotic about health and cleanliness. He nagged Isaac about drinking too much coffee, about forgetting to take vitamins, about sleeping too late. He’d poke his cheek and mutter, "You’re getting too thin. Did you skip lunch again?"
Isaac used to roll his eyes. "You’re not my mother."
"I might as well be," Lucas would snort. "You act like a teenager."
Isaac chuckled through the tears that slipped down his face.
Lucas was the one who woke up first every morning and made breakfast. He cooked everything with too little oil and too much concern. He’d shove a bowl of warm soup into Isaac’s hands during winter and wrap him in a blanket without saying a word. He’d hold his hand in public even though he claid to hate PDA.
He was the one who insisted on walking everywhere together, saying it was good for digestion.
They had their routines.
Friday night takeout and movie marathons. Sunday grocery trips where Lucas scolded him for picking too many snacks. Late-night cuddles where Lucas would mumble, half-asleep, "Don’t move, you’re warm."
Isaac wiped his face with the back of his hand, but the tears wouldn’t stop.
There was a ti Lucas had gotten sick—just a fever, but Isaac had panicked. He stayed by his side for three days straight, feeding him soup, cooling his forehead, whispering promises and apologies.
Lucas had blinked up at him from the bed and whispered hoarsely, "You love this much?"
Isaac had kissed his knuckles and said, "More than my own life."
And now...
Now Lucas was gone.
There was no more scolding voice in the kitchen. No more footsteps walking into the living room with a book in hand. No more sarcastic remarks or gentle touches or tired smiles.
Just silence.
And the cold photograph in a fra.
Isaac stood up, his legs shaky. He walked to the bookshelf and pulled down a worn journal—Lucas’s. He had written little thoughts in it sotis, though he was never open about it. Isaac had found it once and teased him rcilessly, only for Lucas to threaten to toss it in the fireplace.
He opened the journal slowly.
The first page had a scribble:
"I said yes to the idiot today. I have no idea what I’m getting myself into."
Isaac let out a breathy laugh, the tears flowing faster now.
Further down the pages:
"He kissed after my shift. I didn’t want to like it. But I did."
"He brought spicy noodles again. I told him I hated them. He smiled like a fool and said he wanted to see my face turn red. I rolled my eyes but... I ate every bite."
"He said he loves . I didn’t say it back. I wanted to. But I was afraid."
"I think... I love him too."
Isaac held the book against his chest, sinking down onto the floor. His body trembled with the force of his grief, with the weight of the mories that now had no future to follow them.
"I miss you, Lucas..." he whispered brokenly.
"I miss everything."
The journal, still open, fell onto the floor, its last entry catching the candlelight in the quiet room:
"If anything ever happens to ... please let Isaac know I never regretted a single mont."
Isaac reached for it, pressing the page to his lips as a sob tore through him.
-
A day later.
He opened his eyes slowly, the heaviness in his chest waking before the rest of him. His hand instinctively reached out beside him.
The bed was cold.
The space where Lucas used to sleep—neatly tucked, untouched.
For a second, Isaac forgot. That split-second between sleep and wakefulness where the world still felt whole.
Then it hit him.
Lucas was gone.
His chest clenched as if the air had turned to iron. He curled his fingers around the empty sheet, clutching it like it could bring him back.
"...Lucas..."
His voice cracked, rough from sleep and grief. He dragged himself up, his movents sluggish and heavy, like he was wading through a nightmare that wouldn’t end.
He turned his head slowly toward the nightstand. Lucas’s side. His phone used to rest there, his glasses, that old silver watch he never rembered to wind.
Now, there was nothing. Just dust where life used to be.
Isaac sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at the floor like he didn’t know how to begin existing today. His throat was tight, his eyes hollow.
Eventually, he rose.
He wandered to the kitchen in silence, not out of hunger—he hadn’t eaten properly in days—but out of habit.
Lucas used to be here every morning. Hair a little ssy, sleeves rolled up, muttering about cholesterol and making oatal or toast. Isaac would co up behind him, wrap his arms around his waist, and Lucas would pretend to be annoyed. Pretend.
There was no one in the kitchen now.
Just the quiet hum of the refrigerator, and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.
Isaac stood there, motionless. His gaze fell on a single coffee cup on the counter—Lucas’s favorite. The one with a faded cartoon fox on it.
He’d left it there the day before he died.
Isaac reached for it with shaking hands.
He pressed it against his chest and closed his eyes. His knees gave out before he realized he was falling.
He collapsed to the floor in the middle of the kitchen.
The cup clattered beside him but didn’t break.
Unlike him.
He pulled his knees to his chest, his head bent low, and the tears finally ca—ugly, raw, and uncontrolled.
He cried with no sound at first, just trembling violently as though his soul was being wrung dry.
Then ca the sobs.
Hoarse, broken, from sowhere too deep inside.
"Why...?" he choked out, pressing his face against his arms. "Why did you leave ...?"
He hit his fist against the cold tiles once. Twice. His voice cracked with every word:
"You idiot, why did you protect ?! You could have run! You could have—Lucas..."
He didn’t care that the floor was cold. Didn’t care that his body ached from crying.
He just wanted Lucas.
Just one more morning.
One more scolding.
One more kiss.
His chest heaved with the weight of loss, and his voice fell to whispers, like he was begging the air to answer.
"I can’t breathe without you..."
"I don’t know how to live without you..."
He curled tighter into himself, trembling in the lonely kitchen where love used to live.
Outside, the world moved on.
But inside Isaac’s heart—ti had stopped.
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