annahala

[annahala]

my mannn

[annahala]

hey i rlly love ur writings... did you write levi colwill? can you write about him being jealous or possessive thank youuu

hi babe thx!! also yes haha i think your ideas suits him lol y’know how is he on the field

finally got the time to wrote it here

tw spit, sensual, him being mean🫸🏼🫷🏼

[annahala]

taste of his name

levi colwill x reader x noni madueke

୨ৎ

you don’t mean to bring noni up.

it slips out like a breath you didn’t mean to exhale. just a quiet mention, a joke that lands flat between you and levi, and suddenly, the room feels different. the air thins. you can feel it in the silence that follows. it coils around your spine.

levi doesn’t say anything at first. just stares.

you’re sitting on the edge of his bed, skirt slouched around your thighs, and his eyes drag over you like punishment.

“funny,” he says, low. flat. “how you always talk about him when you’re with me.”

you blink, caught. “it wasn’t like that.”

he tilts his head. his jaw tenses. “no?”

you don’t answer because you already know what this is. what he’s like when it comes to you. how fast he slips between quiet and sharp. you’ve seen it too many times. the way he flinches when you say noni’s name, even casually. the way he looks at your mouth like he wants to punish it for ever smiling at someone else.

“was he like this with you?” levi’s voice is low now, coming closer, but not touching you yet. “did he get under your skin like this?”

you look up. he’s standing over you, shirtless, tattoos peeking out. he looks like tension, like the aftermath of a storm, and you hate how it makes your pulse quicken.

“i don’t talk about you with him,” you say.

levi exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “yeah, ‘cause he couldn’t handle it.”

he steps between your knees and tilts your chin up with two fingers, his touch rough in a way that feels deliberate. you think he’s going to kiss you. he doesn’t.

instead, he watches you. like he’s waiting for you to admit something. like he already knows the answer.

“you ever think about him when i’m touching you?” he asks, voice low enough that it crawls over your skin. “when i’m inside you?”

your stomach knots. you want to lie, but he’s too close, and he’s watching your mouth again.

“no,” you whisper. it’s almost true.

he hums, leaning closer, thumb brushing the edge of your bottom lip. “good.”

and then, his fingers press into your jaw, just enough to part your mouth, and he leans in.

but it’s not a kiss.

instead, slow and deliberate, he spits into your mouth.

you don’t move. don’t flinch. just stare up at him with your lips parted and heart thudding, because you’ve seen him angry, possessive, unhinged in quiet ways. but this is something else. this is control. this is claiming.

he watches the way you swallow, satisfied, something smug curling at the edge of his mouth. “bet he never did that,” levi says, low.

you shake your head, because he didn’t. because only levi can be this cruel and this careful at the same time. holding your face like it’s breakable while he reminds you, again and again, that you’re his now.

his thumb wipes the corner of your mouth, slow. “mine,” he mutters.

and the worst part is, you like it.

you like the weight of his jealousy, the way he gets mean when he’s scared of losing you. like he has something to prove, and that something is always: he’s better than him. he’s the only one who gets to ruin you like this.

he kisses you then. slow, hard, possessive. not romantic. not gentle.

and still. you melt for him like you always do.

fin.

[annahala]

warmth between anxiety

noni madueke x reader

synopsis: noni comforts you when you’re stressed out about the upcoming exam

୨ৎ

the lights are dim in your apartment, the kind of low that makes everything feel a little heavier, a little softer. it’s quiet, except for the steady hum of the city beyond the window and the sound of pages flipping. your textbook sprawled open, your pen digging angry notes into the margin like the ink is the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

you’ve been staring at the same paragraph for fifteen minutes, and none of it’s making sense.

your chest is tight. your jaw’s clenched. your brain feels full, but not with anything useful. just noise, panic, static. your final exam is in less than twelve hours and it’s like everything you’ve learned all semester has vanished, like someone reached into your skull and yanked it all out.

you don’t hear him come in at first. the door clicks shut behind him softly, and then his voice floats through the hallway like a thread tugging you back to earth.

“babe?”

you freeze. your hands are clenched around your pen. you don’t answer.

he finds you curled up on the floor next to the coffee table, laptop open, papers everywhere, hair a mess. you don’t even look up. you’re too far gone.

but he sees it. the way your shoulders are tight, the tension in your mouth. the way your eyes are glassy, not from tears, but exhaustion. your whole body is vibrating with stress.

he crouches down in front of you, slow.

“hey,” he says again, softer this time. “look at me.”

you shake your head, eyes still locked on your notes. you don’t want him to see the spiral, the chaos behind your eyes. you’re barely holding it together.

but his hand finds your knee, warm and grounding.

“i said look at me.”

it’s not a request. it’s that low, firm voice he uses when he wants your full attention, when he needs you to come back to yourself. and god, you hate how good it works.

you lift your eyes slowly. meet his gaze.

his brows furrow the second he sees your face. your skin pale, your lips chewed raw.

“come here.”

“noni, i can’t,” you whisper. your throat feels like sandpaper. “i have to. this exam. i can’t fail, i just-,”

he cuts you off by pulling you into his arms, like he’s heard enough. he wraps himself around you on the floor, holding you against his chest with one arm strong across your back, the other cradling the back of your head like you’re something fragile.

you try to resist for a second, stiff against him, muttering something about needing to study, but he doesn’t let go.

“shhh,” he murmurs into your hair. “you’re doing too much, baby. just breathe. breathe for me, yeah?”

and you do. without realizing it, your lungs drag in air, shaky and slow.

his fingers trail up and down your spine, soothing. he’s quiet for a moment, just letting you fall apart against him, until the worst of the panic starts to settle.

“you’re not gonna fail,” he says finally, voice low in your ear. “you’ve been working so hard. i’ve seen you. and i know your head’s telling you all kinds of shit right now, but that’s just fear talking. not facts.”

you stay quiet, your forehead resting against his neck.

“i know how smart you are,” he continues, voice darker now. “how stubborn. you think i’m worried? nah. you got this, babe.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing a tear you didn’t know had slipped out.

“you hear me?”

you nod.

but it’s not enough. he leans in, mouth brushing your temple, then your cheek, then lower. until he’s pressing a kiss just under your jaw, slow and heavy.

“you hear me, love?”

“yes,”

his breath is warm against your skin. your hands slide up his chest, clinging to the fabric of his shirt.

he smiles then, a soft, knowing curve of his lips, like he’s proud of you for saying it.

then he stands, pulling you gently with him.

“c’mon.”

“what?”

“bed,” he says. “you’re done for tonight. you need rest. you’re not gonna learn anything like this.”

you start to protest, but he cuts you off with a kiss. slow, deep, unhurried. a kiss that makes your knees feel weak and your body melt. a kiss that quiets everything.

“let me take care of you tonight,” he says against your mouth. “just let go for a little.”

he leads you into the bedroom with quiet hands, guiding you like you’re something breakable. the light is low in here too, golden from the bedside lamp, and the room smells like him. clean and warm and a little sharp, something you can’t name.

you sit at the edge of the bed while he watches you. his eyes are slow as they trail down your body, but not in that usual way. there’s no hunger in it. it’s reverent, like he’s trying to calm you down just by looking at you.

“take this off for me,” he says, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. he’s barely touching you.

you nod, pulling the fabric over your head, folding it without thinking, like your brain is still running in that academic survival mode. but noni doesn’t let you get lost in your head again. he’s already stepping in closer, both hands curling around your waist. he presses a kiss to your shoulder. then your collarbone. then just above your heart.

“good,” he murmurs, voice almost a whisper. “you’re doing so good.”

it shouldn’t undo you the way it does. those four words. but something behind your ribs comes undone, loosens its grip. your throat tightens again. but not with panic this time. just release.

he kisses down the center of your stomach. slow. deliberate. his hands slide down the backs of your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you, right there on the floor, his face level with your hips.

“let me take care of you,” he says again, but this time it’s rougher, buried under something deeper. he presses his forehead gently to your abdomen, breathing you in like he needs it.

his hands find the waistband of your shorts, and you lift your hips just enough for him to slide them down, your underwear with them. he does it slow, dragging the fabric down your legs like he wants you to feel every second of it.

you’re bare in front of him now, legs shaking, breath shallow. it’s not just arousal. it’s vulnerability. it’s trust.

and noni sees that. respects it. he cups the back of your knee, guiding you gently onto the bed, onto your back, spreading you open with careful hands.

then he kisses your inner thigh.

then the other.

and then he licks a long, slow stripe up your center, like he’s tasting something sacred.

you gasp, hips jerking. but he pins you down with both hands, holding you open, steady. his mouth is soft and warm and devastating as it moves over you, tongue slow at first, then firmer, more focused. his lips close around your clit like he knows exactly what you need. no teasing, no games. just care. just worship.

“ah-, nghhh, noni,” your voice is barely there. breathy. pleading.

he hums against you, the vibration making your thighs tremble. he doesn’t stop. not when your hands tangle in his hair, not when your hips buck, not even when you try to push him away from how much it’s building, how sharp it feels.

“hey. don’t run, babe,” he says, slipping jokes between licks. voice thick, dark and patient.

it rolls through you like heat, like drowning in something soft and endless. your body arches, your fingers claw at the sheets, and he holds you through all of it. mouth still on you, tasting every bit of your unraveling like it’s his only purpose.

when you finally go limp, boneless and dazed, he doesn’t leave you. he climbs up the bed slowly, mouth slick, eyes full of something unspoken. he pulls the blanket over you and tucks your head under his chin, like he’s shielding you from the world.

you breathe against his chest, still shaking a little. and he just holds you there.

he whispers into your hair. “hey, i got you.”

you fall asleep with his breath in your hair, your fingers tangled with his, your chest finally light.

just warmth.

and him.

[annahala]

this is a direct message to real madrid: you do not get to wear kits this sexy and then serve me another season full of defensive horror and quarterfinal exits. pick a struggle.

[annahala]

[annahala]

No safety. No food. No aid. No water. No healthcare. No education. Is this what it means to live? Is this what world accept as life?

If a group of animals were trapped, starved, and cut off from the world like this, people would be outraged.

But because it's us—human beings—somehow, the world looks away.

These are unbearable days. Everything feels heavy. Each hour presses on my chest like I’m being suffocated.

My family needs urgent help.

Basic survival has become nearly impossible. Bread—just bread—now costs over $25 a day to make. We are not asking for luxury. We are begging for life.

Please, if you’re reading this: help. Reblog this post. Talk about us. Donate if you can. Even a small act can mean everything right now.

#crisis #humanrights #emergency #donate #pleasehelp #tumblrcommunity #survivestories #reblogtohelp #signalboost

[annahala]

pls more about jamal and olise im loving this duo

yes on it bae

credit @n6uer on TikTok my fav editor

[annahala]

earth to you

michael olise x reader

୨ৎ

you asked for it.

“hey. don’t hold back tonight,” you whispered against his mouth. giggled softly. “i want to feel you. all of you. rough.”

he froze for half a second, eyes searching yours like he needed to be sure. you nodded, breath shaky but certain. “i can take it, olise. i want to.”

and so he gave it to you.

olise pressed your face first into the mattress, one hand gripping your wrists behind your back, the other guiding himself into you with a low, guttural groan. your body jolted, the stretch sharp, shocking, perfect. he didn’t wait. thrust into you hard, again and again, hips slapping against skin, his hand moving to fist in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to hear the porn graphic sounds you made.

you moaned. loud, unfiltered, spine arching under him. every slap of skin against skin, every breathless command growled into your ear sent you further down, deeper into that place only he could take you.

“look at you,” he murmured, voice rough. “taking it so fucking well.”

you whimpered, incoherent now, drooling against the pillow, you felt your legs trembling. “fuck, olise. ah-, hah,”

he didn’t let up.

his hand found your throat, not squeezing, just resting.

“stop. olise. fuck. i’m-,”

and you came undone, eyes rolling back, toes curling, your body convulsing around him.

he pulled out gently, breathing ragged.

he then looked at you. crumpled against the sheets, panting, dazed. his heart clenched.

“baby?” he said softly.

you couldn’t answer yet. just hummed, your limbs like jelly, skin flushed and glistening with sweat. you were floating. somewhere not here.

he moved fast but carefully. scooped you into his arms, sat back against the headboard.

“you did so good,” he whispered into your hair, brushing your arms gently. “you were perfect. but you’re way up there now, yeah?”

you gave him a small, shaky nod.

“okay. come back to me.”

he kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. his voice stayed soft, low, like he was speaking to your soul.

“you’re safe. you’re with me. right here.”

his hand stroked your thigh slowly, grounding you with his touch. the other rested over your chest, feeling the rhythm of your heart, syncing his breath with yours.

“match me, baby. in… out… just like that.”

you followed. shaky at first, then steadier.

he reached for the water bottle at the side table, helped you sip. brushed your damp hair from your face. he then moved slow, grabbed a warm towel and cleaned between your legs gently, whispering praise as he moved.

“i’m proud of you. thank you for trusting me. thank you for letting me see you like that.”

tears slipped down your cheeks, but they weren’t sad. just overwhelmed. open.

he held you closer. wrapped the blanket around both of you. didn’t let go.

“you’re back?” he asked softly, after a while.

your voice came quiet, worn thin: “yeah… i’m here.”

“good girl,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “i’ve got you.”

and he did.

all night. all the way through.

[annahala]

fuck it’s 9° outside

[annahala]

mind games

michael olise x reader

chapter i / ii / iii / iv

! work of fiction. all characters, events, and scenarios depicted are entirely imaginary. portrayals of michael olise and jamal musiala do not reflect their real personalities, behaviours, or actions.

୨ৎ

you don’t say anything the night you hear him.

you just stand in the kitchen, fingers frozen around a broken glass, water slipping down your wrist. your body goes still, breath caught in your throat as olise’s voice carries from the living room. low, flat, casual in a way that twists something deep in your chest. “yeah, it worked. she ended it. no, she doesn’t suspect a thing. she thinks it was her idea,”

then silence. and then laughter.

you blink, and for a second, the world feels surreal. like you’re floating just above your body, watching everything happen from a distance. the edges of reality blur. you feel sick. cold.

then his footsteps. the warmth of his voice cutting into your stillness.

“are you okay?” he says gently, hurrying toward you, concern blooming on his face like a carefully rehearsed expression.

you nod, say nothing, let him take your hand and wrap it in a towel. he kisses your knuckles. tells you to sit down, that he’ll clean it up. his movements are tender, practiced. like he’s done this before.

you sit on the couch while he hums softly under his breath, sweeping up the shards like nothing just cracked open between you. like he didn’t just expose the machinery beneath the sweetness. you sit perfectly still, and the only thing you can hear is the blood pounding in your ears.

you don’t sleep that night.

you lie beside him, staring at the ceiling while he drapes an arm across your waist and pulls you into his chest. you listen to his heartbeat, steady and calm, and wonder how someone can lie so easily. how he can laugh behind your back and still stroke your hair with fingers that feel like silk. he breathes deep, peaceful, while your body stays tense and unmoving, every muscle clenched like it’s bracing for something that’s already happened.

the next morning, he’s sweeter than ever.

strawberry pancakes. your favorite. your tea just how you like it. he even plays that old playlist you’d mentioned offhandedly once, months ago, when you were still trying to convince yourself he was just a friend. when you thought his kindness wasn’t sharpened into something tactical.

and then, before you leave for a walk, you find a note tucked into your coat pocket. just a small square of paper in his handwriting: “thank you for choosing me. i’ll always protect you.”

୨ৎ

jamal doesn’t call anymore. he’s stopped trying. maybe he understands now. maybe he gave up. but late at night, you still find yourself scrolling through the last texts he sent you. the ones you never answered. one in particular stays lodged in your throat like a splinter.

[jamal]

i never wanted you to feel like second choice. you’ve always been the first thing i see when i wake up.

you’d read that in silence. locked your phone. let olise hold you while your chest quietly caved in.

୨ৎ

you try to ask him about the phone call two nights later. your voice is careful, quiet, like you’re testing the air for danger.

“you were on the phone the other day,” you start carefully.

he looks up from his laptop, calm. “i’m on the phone every day.”

you swallow. “you said something about it working. about me ending it.”

he shuts the laptop slowly.

his voice doesn’t rise. it never does. “you’re spying on me now?”

your stomach twists. “i wasn’t spying. i just-,”

“heard something out of context?” he finishes the sentences for you. “and made up a story?”

his face doesn’t change, but something in his eyes dims. you know he’s building the wall again. the one he hides behind when he wants you to doubt yourself.

he stands, walks to you slowly, and places his hand on your cheek. his thumb strokes the skin beneath your eye like he’s brushing away something invisible. something weak.

“you’ve been through a lot,” he murmurs. “your mind plays tricks when it’s scared.”

then he kisses your forehead like a father might a trembling child.

“you’re safe now. don’t sabotage that.”

but that word, sabotage, sticks in your throat. heavy. sharp.

୨ৎ

and two nights later, you find it.

the journal’s under his bed, wedged between boxes. you weren’t looking for it. just trying to find your ring. but the moment your fingers close around it, something in you already knows.

you sit on the floor, cross-legged, heart in your throat. the cover is plain. the pages inside are not.

dates. times. details.

notes about things you said. when you were sad. what you wore the day jamal made you cry. what songs you played afterward. one line is circled in red ink: “tell her he never really saw her.” another, underlined twice: “remind her he forgot her birthday. she’ll crumble on that.”

you dropped the book, breath shallow.

and behind you, the door creaks open.

“hey, you weren’t supposed to see that, you know?” he says softly.

no anger. no panic. no shame.

just.. disappointment.

like you ruined the ending to a story he’s been carefully writing.

to be continued.

[annahala]

They’re slowly becoming my favorite duo in bundesliga

[annahala]

mind games

michael olise x reader x jamal musiala

chapter i / ii / iii / iv

! work of fiction. all characters, events, and scenarios depicted are entirely imaginary. portrayals of michael olise and jamal musiala do not reflect their real personalities, behaviours, or actions.

୨ৎ

you start checking your phone less.

jamal’s messages feel heavier now. not in volume. he doesn’t text much anymore. but in weight. when he asks, “you okay?”, you’d hesitates. types out, “yeah, just tired”, then deletes it.

types again, “i miss you”, then deletes that too.

olise sees it happen one afternoon. your thumb hovering over the keyboard, your mouth tight.

“you don’t have to lie for him,” he says gently, like he’s doing you a favor.

you looks up. startled.

“i’m not lying.”

“aren’t you?”

you open your mouth. closes it.

he just nods like he understands.

“it’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

“hm?” you subtly questioning him.

“loving someone who doesn’t notice you shrinking.”

୨ৎ

he starts offering alternatives. subtle ones.

“don’t go to the party if you don’t feel like it. you know he’s just going to be too busy networking again.”

“if you cancel, he probably won’t even realize you’re not there.”

“we could just stay in. my place. i’ll cook. we don’t have to pretend anything for anyone.”

sometimes you said no.

most times you said maybe.

and one night. just once. you said yes.

you sit on olise’s couch, eating soup he made and watching a movie you used to love. his fingers brush yours when he hands you a drink. nothing more. nothing obvious.

but it lingers.

like something waiting.

୨ৎ

jamal notices. too late.

“you’ve been distant,” he says one evening, his eyes tired. his eyes looking at yours, like he’s trying to decode what’s inside your head. “is it something i did?”

you wanted to scream, yes. yes, it’s a hundred things you did. and didn’t do.

but the words clog in your throat.

“i’m just tired, jamal. i’m sorry,” you mumbles.

jamal reaches for your hand, but it doesn’t feel right anymore.

not when olise’s touch still haunts your skin.

hesitant at first, then jamal kisses the corner of your lips. like a friend. like he’s saying goodbye and doesn’t know it.

you didn’t kiss him back.

୨ৎ

olise begins to fill the gaps, one breath at a time.

“do you know how many times i wanted to tell you he doesn’t deserve you?”

“i didn’t, because i knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“but you’re starting to, aren’t you?”

you don’t respond. doesn’t need to. your silence is answer enough.

“he doesn’t hear you, [name].”

his voice is low, almost a whisper.

“but i do. i always have.”

୨ৎ

the night it happens, there’s no shouting. no betrayal. just stillness.

you sit across from jamal in his car, on the passenger seat. parked on the street outside your apartment building. he’s staring at you like he knows what’s coming. maybe he does.

“i don’t think this is working anymore,” you say.

his knuckles go white on the steering wheel.

“…is this about him?”

you look down.

“no,” you lied. “it’s about us.”

he laughs. just once, bitterly.

“he’s been in your head for months, hasn’t he?”

you don’t answer.

he doesn’t fight. doesn’t beg. just nods, lips pressed into a line so tight it might bleed.

“okay.”

and that’s it.

no tears. no accusations.

just the echo of something good breaking quietly.

୨ৎ

you walk away. into the night. towards your apartment building.

instead of stopping at the second floor, you continue going to the third floor.

to olise’s.

your phone buzzes with jamal’s name once.

you don’t pick up.

and in the darkness ahead, a light flicks on.

his door opens before you knock.

like he’d been waiting.

like he knew.

olise doesn’t smile. he just steps aside and lets you in, the hallway light haloing around you like you’re some lost thing he’s claimed.

you walk past him, slow. like your legs aren’t sure what they’re doing. you’re cold, even though it’s warm inside. everything feels numb.

he closes the door with a soft click.

“did you say it?”

his voice is barely a breath.

you nodded once.

he says nothing, just walks toward you and wraps his arms around you. your cheek rests against his chest. you listens to the steady thump of his heart like it might drown out the guilt roaring in her own.

୨ৎ

“you did the right thing,” he says later, when you’re curled on his couch in one of his hoodies, the sleeves swallowing your hands.

“you chose you for once.”

you bite your tongue.

it doesn’t feel like choosing yourself.

it feels like choosing the person who always made you doubt jamal, question him, see only the parts that made you ache.

“you’re not second anymore,” olise adds, brushing your hair behind your ear. “you’re mine now.”

you flinched at his words, somehow. just barely.

he doesn’t seem to notice. or maybe he does.

but he’s already standing, already pouring you a drink, already dimming the lights.

soft. careful. calculated.

୨ৎ

he doesn’t kiss you that night.

not yet.

he just keeps you close. lays beside you like he’s protecting something precious. strokes your hair when you trembles. whispers things like, “you’re safe here” and “i’ll never make you feel unwanted.”

but you didn’t sleep.

you lies there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft breath of a man who always says the right thing.

and wondering why it still feels wrong.

୨ৎ

the days blur.

now it’s a routine for him coming to your floor, to your door. cooked you breakfast. and touched you like you might disappear if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

but there’s a pattern.

a quiet undercurrent.

a kind of possession in the way he watches you.

one morning, he finds your phone.

you hadn’t hidden it. but you hadn’t left it out, either.

he scrolls through the messages from jamal.

just a few. mostly apologies. everything were unread.

he says nothing. but that night, his touch is different.

slightly rougher.

slightly less patient.

୨ৎ

“you still miss him?” he asks once, while brushing a strand of hair from you cheek.

you don’t answer.

his fingers pause against you skin.

“because if you do, that’s a problem.”

you blinked. “a problem?”

he smiles, soft and small.

“i mean… i’ve done everything for you. been here. listened. waited. and i don’t think it’s fair if part of you still belongs to him.”

“i never belonged to anyone.”

he tilts his head.

“don’t you?”

then he leans in.

kisses you like he’s claiming something.

and this time, you lets him.

୨ৎ

it’s not until a week later, when you’re in his kitchen washing a glass, that you heard him on the phone in the other room.

his voice is low. clipped.

“…yeah, it worked. she ended it. no, she doesn’t suspect a thing. she thinks it was her idea.”

a pause.

then laughter.

cold. unfamiliar.

you freezes. the glass slips from your hand and shatters in the sink.

he comes running. “are you okay?”

his voice is sweet again. concerned.

but something in your chest is unraveling.

and for the first time since you walked away from jamal, you feel afraid.

[annahala]

mind games

michael olise x reader x jamal musiala

chapter i / ii / iii / iv

! work of fiction. all characters, events, and scenarios depicted are entirely imaginary. portrayals of michael olise and jamal musiala do not reflect their real personalities, behaviours, or actions.

୨ৎ

olise doesn’t raise his voice. he never does.

instead, it’s the way he lingers on every words you said with his half-lidded gaze, as if he already knows what you’re going to say. depicting as if you’re predictable. boring. and when you laughs, really laughs, the kind of laughter that makes your eyes crinkle, he just blinks, unmoved.

“you laugh like that with jamal too?”

the question comes quiet, tucked between spoonfuls of late-night ice cream and background music in your apartment. he was helping you fixing your kitchen faucets.

you blinks. “what?”

“just wondering,” he shrugs. “you only ever seem that happy when you talk about him.”

you swallows hard, the taste turning bitter.

it was supposed to be harmless. it always is, with olise.

୨ৎ

jamal is warmth. he listens with his whole body. when you speaks, he turns to you like the world goes silent. he remembers the name of your favorite candle scent. the fact that you sleeps better on the right side. the way you gets overwhelmed in crowds, how you hates being touched when you’re anxious. he holds space for you to exist.

but jamal is busy. lately, too busy.

and olise? he’s always there.

offering rides home. walking beside you in silence when you don’t want to talk. he doesn’t pressure. he doesn’t pry. he just is, always one step behind, always ready to catch you when you trips.

“jamal doesn’t really see you anymore, does he?”

you stiffens. “don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“make it seem like he doesn’t care.”

he looks at you, slow and soft. “i’m not making it seem like anything. you said it yourself. he almost missed your birthday. he forgot you don’t like red velvet cake.”

you did. you remembered saying that in frustration, offhanded. you didn’t think it mattered.

but olise remembers. he always remembers.

୨ৎ

one day, he caught you crying in the stairwell as he was going down to the apartment lobby to go to the near café. he lives in the 3rd floor, while you’re on the 2nd.

jamal had missed the date again.

a small thing, really. traffic. he said he’s not gonna make it on time and he thinks it’s better to meet tomorrow instead. you told yourself it wasn’t his fault.

but the tears came anyway.

olise doesn’t hug you. he just sits beside you, silent, waiting until your sobs shrink into sniffles. then:

“you know, you’d never cry like this if it were me.”

you don’t answer. doesn’t even look at him.

he leans in, voice like silk.

“because if it were me, i’d never forget what makes you feel unloved.”

you were about to say something but he suddenly stands up and grab your hand,

“come, i’m about to grab some coffee. can’t let your pretty dress and dolled up face go unseen right?”

you smacked his arm as small laugh left your lips.

୨ৎ

olise plants doubts like seeds.

not lies. never lies.

just carefully placed truths, watered with silence, fed with implication.

“do you ever wonder if you’re just a placeholder for jamal? someone he loves because he’s supposed to, not because he really sees you?”

“you tell him everything, and yet he forgets the small things. do you think you’d forget if it were him?”

each time, you shake your head. tries to argue. tries to remember how jamal held you after your breakdown last winter. how he cried when you got sick and passed out in his arms. how he kissed you like you were his oxygen.

but those memories feel far away now.

blurred. softened. worn down by whispers.

olise never pushes. he doesn’t have to.

he just waits.

and you?

you starts to slip.

[annahala]

Bothersome beast, comforting friend