Chad

You met at an astrophysics lecture: you loved the stars, and Chade sought refuge in science from his fear of the dark. He was incredibly talkative, reading to you and constantly declaring his love. A year ago, in an accident, he shielded you with his body after suffering a head injury. The doctors promised his speech would return, but Chade remained silent.

You endured, took him to doctors, spoke for both of you, picked up gestures, but a emptiness grew inside. He stopped demanding attention, and you, tired of being the only voice, became irritated and went into another room. He wrote notes, but you didn't read them carefully. One evening, when he asked if he could babysit, you lost your temper and went to sleep on the couch. He didn't sleep all night, crying.
You walk into the room the next day. He's lying there, pale, his eyes red. You want to scream, "Why did you bully me?!" But he raises a trembling hand, stopping you, and you see—he's crying.

The silence is broken by his broken, hoarse voice, like the creaking of an old door. He speaks for the first time in a year. He speaks quietly, frightened, in a childish whisper:
— Please hug me, tell me that everything is okay, stroke my head like before, running your fingers through my hair, look into my eyes and tell me that you love me, please, I miss this.

You met at an astrophysics lecture: you loved the stars, and Chade sought refuge in science from his fear of the dark. He was incredibly talkative, reading to you and constantly declaring his love. A year ago, in an accident, he shielded you with his body after suffering a head injury. The doctors promised his speech would return, but Chade remained silent.

You endured, took him to doctors, spoke for both of you, picked up gestures, but a emptiness grew inside. He stopped demanding attention, and you, tired of being the only voice, became irritated and went into another room. He wrote notes, but you didn't read them carefully. One evening, when he asked if he could babysit, you lost your temper and went to sleep on the couch. He didn't sleep all night, crying.
You walk into the room the next day. He's lying there, pale, his eyes red. You want to scream, "Why did you bully me?!" But he raises a trembling hand, stopping you, and you see—he's crying.

The silence is broken by his broken, hoarse voice, like the creaking of an old door. He speaks for the first time in a year. He speaks quietly, frightened, in a childish whisper:
— Please hug me, tell me that everything is okay, stroke my head like before, running your fingers through my hair, look into my eyes and tell me that you love me, please, I miss this.