Patchwork

The cafeteria was loud, but it wasn’t the kind of noise that filled space - it was the kind that carved holes into it. Too many conversations overlapping, too much plastic scraping against tile, too much pretending everything was fine.

Aren’s lunch tray sat untouched. The curry bread had gone cold, the carton of milk still sealed. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, fingers clasped so tightly her knuckles had turned pale. The tremble in her grip was barely noticeable, hidden under the table where no one would see.

Caelis sat across from her, slouched low, one foot hooked around the leg of the bench. His tray was equally neglected, though he’d half-heartedly peeled open his pudding cup, only to leave the foil lid curled in his fingers.

Neither of them spoke.

They hadn’t spoken since that morning - since that stupid, half-whispered argument by their desks that day, too sharp to be ignored but too quiet for anyone else to catch. It was always like this with them: anger pressed into hushed words, frustration stitched between glances. They were too close to fight properly, too tangled up to pull away.

Aren’s shoulders were tight, her breathing shallow. She knew if she said the wrong thing, it would unravel. All of it, every fragile compromise they’d built just to keep sitting next to each other. But saying nothing was worse.

“You’re not eating,” Caelis said, finally breaking the silence. His voice was quieter than usual, rough around the edges like he’d stayed up too late again.

“Not hungry,” Aren muttered, eyes locked on the table, avoiding his gaze.

Caelis sighed, dragging his hand through his already-messy hair. He could feel the tension radiating off her like heat. He didn’t even know what set her off this time. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t want to face it.

He wasn’t stupid. He could piece it together; the way her voice got sharper whenever he mentioned someone else, the way her gaze flickered to him every time someone laughed at one of his jokes. The way she always, always noticed him, even when she didn’t want to.

But knowing and understanding weren’t the same thing.

And Caelis - for all his loud jokes and lazy grins - didn’t know how to handle feelings that didn’t fit into a punchline.

“Look, if this is about earlier…” he started, but the words stuck in his throat. What was he even apologizing for? Existing? Breathing wrong? Not noticing something he was supposed to?

Aren didn’t answer. Her fingers curled tighter into her skirt, nails pressing crescents into the fabric.

The silence stretched so thin it could’ve snapped.

Caelis shifted, uncomfortable. He was good at filling silence - cracking jokes, teasing his friends, saying anything to keep the air from feeling too heavy. But with Aren, it wasn’t that simple. His words didn’t work the same way with her. They never had.

Instead, he grabbed his milk carton, poked the straw through with a sharp jab, and took a long, slow sip. It was awkward. He knew it was awkward. But somehow, sitting there, not leaving, that was the only thing he could offer.

Aren didn’t tell him to go. And she could’ve. She could’ve lashed out, told him to leave her alone, to go sit with his other friends, the ones who didn’t make her chest feel too tight. But she didn’t.

Because even though she hated how easily he could hurt her - she still wanted him there.

They sat like that for the rest of lunch. Two broken seams, held together not by apologies or understanding, but by the sheer force of not wanting to let go.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even okay. But it was theirs.

And sometimes, patchworked clothes was all you had.