sahmiarlert11

[sahmiarlert11]

“Practice for Forever”

The house was still.

Too still.

You stared at the ceiling in your dark room, blanket twisted around your legs, stomach fluttering like it was full of bees instead of butterflies. Tomorrow. You were marrying Armin tomorrow.

Armin.

Your best friend. Your lover. Your home.

You turned to look at the clock: 1:32 AM.

And then—just like that—you heard the floorboards creak outside your door. Light steps, familiar ones. You didn’t even have to ask.

You swung the door open quietly at the same time he raised his fist to knock.

He blinked. “You’re awake.”

“You’re awake,” you echoed, grinning.

He gave a little sheepish laugh, running a hand through his golden hair, soft and messy. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

You stood there in the dim hallway light for a moment, just looking at each other. Then he tilted his head, soft voice playful.

“Want to run away before the wedding starts?”

You gasped dramatically. “Scandalous. What kind of runaway would I be without shoes?”

“Ah, good point,” he said, stepping back and holding out his hand. “Then at least come outside with me. One last walk before you’re stuck with me forever.”

You took his hand without hesitation. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m the lucky one, not you,” he said instantly, so quietly and sincerely it made your heart trip over itself.

You both ended up barefoot in the small garden, under the stars, the grass cool beneath your feet. He let go of your hand just to spread out his arms and spin slowly, looking up at the sky like a little kid.

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” he said. “Like this… like you… can’t possibly be real.”

You bumped his shoulder, laughing. “I feel the same. I keep thinking I’ll wake up and I’ll just be that girl who had a hopeless crush on Armin Arlert years before we got together.”

He turned, blinking at you like you’d just said the sun belonged to you. “You had a crush on me years before?”

“Oh my god, Armin—I was basically planning our wedding in my head the first time you smiled at me,” you said, hiding your face. “I thought I was being so subtle.”

“You weren’t,” he said, grinning. “I just couldn’t believe you felt that way about me. I still can’t.”

You both sat on the grass, knees touching. He tugged your hand into his lap, fidgeting with your fingers. And then—

“…Want to practice?”

You tilted your head. “Practice what?”

He blushed, but didn’t let go of your hand. “Saying ‘I do.’ Saying your vows. The first dance. I don’t know. Everything. Just once. With no one watching.”

Your throat tightened.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Let’s practice forever.”

You stood. He gently took both your hands. And there, under the sleepy moonlight, he looked at you like the whole world had quieted just for this.

“I, Armin Arlert,” he began, nervous smile tugging at his lips, “promise to love you every day for the rest of my life. Even on the bad days. Especially on the bad days.”

You giggled softly. “Don’t forget the laundry days.”

“I’ll do all the laundry,” he said seriously. “Even your weirdly mismatched socks.”

You laughed through a sniffle. “You’re gonna make me cry before I’ve even walked down the aisle.”

“I’m practicing that too,” he said, stepping forward just a little, “so I’ll know exactly how to wipe your tears.”

He reached up and softly brushed your cheek with his thumb, heart in his eyes.

You whispered, “I promise to love you even when you steal the blankets.”

He smirked. “I do not—”

“You do, and I’ll still love you,” you said, stepping into him, your forehead pressing against his. “Even when you forget to put the milk away. Even when you overthink everything and talk yourself into spirals. Even then. Especially then.”

His eyes fluttered closed, breath shaky. “God, I love you.”

“Show me,” you whispered. “Practice the first kiss as my husband.”

And he did.

Soft and slow and full of starlight. Like he was sealing the promise on your lips before the world had even witnessed it.

You stayed like that for a while—just you and him, slow dancing to the crickets, laughing at nothing, forehead to forehead.

He whispered against your cheek, “If this is practice… I can’t wait for the real thing.”

You smiled so wide your cheeks ached.

“Tomorrow,” you whispered. “Tomorrow, I’m yours.”

“You’ve always been mine,” he said. “Even before I had the courage to believe it.”

[sahmiarlert11]

Let go part 2

The line had gone dead, and Armin just sat there—cold, still, empty.

He’d said too much and yet not enough.

All the words he should’ve said before, when you were still his, when your eyes still searched for him across crowded rooms, when your smile was meant for him alone.

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to block out the image of you walking away. The memory had been tormenting him every day since that fight. The way your shoulders had squared up like you were bracing for impact, like his words had hit you harder than any battlefield wound.

Why did I do that to her?

He didn’t know how long he sat there, trying to breathe through the ache. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. But eventually, he stood up, his limbs stiff, and started walking—he didn’t even know where until his feet were already carrying him in one direction.

Your place.

He didn’t expect anything. Not forgiveness. Not warmth. Not even a conversation.

But he had to try.

When he reached your door, his heart almost gave out. His knuckles hovered above the wood for what felt like years before he forced them to knock.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He was about to turn away when he heard soft footsteps. Then the door creaked open.

You stood there. Wrapped in a hoodie. Hair slightly messy. Face tired. And beautiful. Always so beautiful.

Your eyes widened in surprise. "Armin…?"

He swallowed hard. "Hi."

Silence hung between you again, but this time, it was different. Charged. Fragile.

"I didnt expect you to come." Your voice was soft. No anger. No bitterness. Just exhaustion and guarded confusion.

He looked down, then back up. "I shouldn’t have called. But after we hung up, I… I couldn’t sit with it. Not like that. Not knowing I didn’t try."

You didn’t say anything.

"I miss you. And I know that doesn’t fix anything, and I know I don’t deserve to show up like this. But I’m here because—because I don’t want to keep being a coward."

Your gaze softened just a bit, the smallest crack in the armor.

"I never meant those words." He swallows, "Not a single one. I wanted you to fight for me, to prove me wrong… and when you walked away with your head high, i wondered if that was the right choice. How stupid I was to let you go."

The ache in his chest throbbed. "I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But… I’m here anyway. Because I’d rather face the pain of rejection than spend the rest of my life wondering what would’ve happened if I had just tried."

You looked at him for a long time.

Then, quietly, you opened the door just a little wider.

"You’re lucky I’m not as cruel as you were that night."

His heart skipped.

"But you’re here now. And that… means something."

Armin stepped inside, careful, like he was walking into a dream he didn’t want to break.

"I don’t know how to fix everything," he admitted. "But I want to learn. If you'll let me."

You nodded slowly, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he saw it—the flicker in your eyes. The warmth. The love that hadn’t died, only buried under pain.

You sat beside him on the couch, not touching.

"I’m not promising anything just yet," you whispered.

He nodded. "I’ll earn your forgiveness. As long as it takes."

[sahmiarlert11]

Let Go

The night air bit at his skin as he stumbled down the dimly lit street, the bottle in his hand long forgotten, dangling uselessly at his side. He wasn’t even sure where he was anymore. The city blurred around him, the cold doing little to numb the ache pulsing in his chest.

He hadn’t meant to drink this much. He hadn’t meant to think of you again. But your laughter—God, your laughter—had echoed in his head ever since he caught that glimpse of you earlier today. Dressed beautifully, radiant, smiling at someone else. Someone who wasn’t him.

He’d turned his head away too quickly, like the sight of you would burn holes through him.

Because it did.

You were supposed to be his. You were his, once. And now? Now he didn’t even know what the hell he was doing.

Why did I let you go?

Why did I say those things?

He sat down heavily on the curb, running a shaky hand through his hair. His phone was already in his other hand, your name glowing on the screen.

He shouldn’t call. He shouldn’t.

But the thought of not hearing your voice again? Of you slipping even further away?

It was unbearable.

So he hit call.

And to his complete disbelief... you answered.

"Hello...?"

Your voice. Tired. Hesitant. Familiar. Beautiful.

His heart thudded so loud it drowned everything else out.

"Hi... Is that you? Did you actually answer or am I just hearing things...?"

There was a long pause. And then, your voice again, softer this time.

"You’re drunk."

He let out a humorless laugh. "Yeah… maybe. Doesn’t matter though. You picked up. That’s all I wanted, I think."

The words fell out of him before he could think. His heart was too full, his walls too thin. He was crumbling, and you were the only person who ever made him feel like he wasn’t falling.

"You told me not to talk to you again, Armin. You told me you didn’t even want to see my face."

And God, hearing those words thrown back at him—he flinched.

"I know."

He almost couldn’t say it. The guilt wrapped around his throat like vines.

"I was angry. No—I was terrified. I ruined everything, didn’t I?"

The silence that followed was like a scream in his ears.

"You didn’t deserve that. Any of it." His voice broke. "I’ve been thinking about that night every single day. Every time I look at the moon, I wonder if you’re looking at it too."

Do you miss me? Do you still love me? Please say you do.

"Why are you calling me, Armin?" you asked, and your voice was brittle now. Like if he said the wrong thing, you'd shatter—and so would he.

He swallowed hard. "Because I saw you today. With someone else."

The confession tasted like rust.

"I shouldn’t have looked. I tried to walk away, I swear, but I saw your smile and—"

"Don’t," you whispered.

But he couldn’t stop.

"I never stopped loving you. Even after I said it was over. Even now... I still feel like I belong nowhere else but with you."

That was the truth. The only thing that made sense anymore.

"I know I don’t have the right to say this—but I miss you. So much it physically hurts."

He heard your breath hitch and nearly broke down right then and there.

"Then why now, Armin? Why only after you saw me trying to move on?"

That hit harder than anything else. He had no defense. Only the truth.

"Because seeing you with someone else made me realize something."

His voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

"I don’t want anyone else to love you the way I was supposed to."

Silence.

And in that silence, Armin could feel it—the gap between your heart and his, carved by mistakes, words he could never take back, and time that kept moving forward without him.

"I shouldn’t have called," he finally said, the regret pooling in his stomach. "I'm sorry. You deserve peace. Not this. Not me."

He lingered for a second longer, waiting. Hoping you'd say stay. Or I miss you too. Or even just don’t hang up.

But you didn’t.

So he ended the call before he could fall even deeper.

[sahmiarlert11]

Back Then, and Now

The first time you saw Armin Arlert, you were thirteen. He was that quiet boy in your middle school class, always sitting near the window with a paperback half-open on his desk and the softest voice you’d ever heard.

He never really talked much in front of others, but when called upon, he answered with a calm clarity that made you stop mid-sentence to listen for a moment. And maybe it was that — the way his voice gently wrapped around his words like he didn’t want to disturb the world around him — that made your heart thud with something you didn’t quite understand yet.

A crush. A silly, ridiculous, terrifying crush.

You never told anyone. Not your friends. And definitely not your siblings. The thought of your brothers finding out? You'd be mocked until the end of time. They’d mimic his soft voice, pretend to swoon in the hallways, poke fun at every glance you gave in his direction. No, no. This stayed locked up tightly — a secret you buried in diary pages and late-night thoughts.

But Armin noticed you, even then.

He noticed how you always chose the desk two rows over, just close enough to listen when he mumbled thoughts about history or the stars. He noticed how you bit your lip when you were nervous, how your eyes lit up when talking about what you loved, how you were always quiet around loud people but glowed around kind ones.

You weren’t close — not really. But sometimes, when he passed by you in the hall, he’d smile shyly. Sometimes, if you dropped a pen, he’d pick it up and offer it to you.

And sometimes… you would freeze. Stammer. Look away. Because liking someone — really liking someone — was scary when it felt like they could read your mind.

But that was middle school. And things changed.

---------------------‐--------------------------

By the time they entered high school, your heart didn’t skip when you saw him anymore. In fact, you’d trained it not to. It was a defense mechanism.

Everything changed the day your parents went to the school’s parent-teacher meeting.

You still remembered that evening vividly: your mother’s sharp eyes as she walked through the front door, your father’s heavy silence. They had seen him, listened to the praises the teachers had given to his grandfather.

“Armin Arlert,” her mother had said, like the name itself was something to be remembered for life. “Top of every class. The teachers adore him. Polite. Well-read. Said he wants to study international relations or literature or most especially marine biology. Do you know him?”

You did. All too well.

They didn’t wait for an answer.

“I wish you would take your studies as seriously. That boy is focused. Not wasting time on friends or silly distractions.”

From that day, Armin’s name became a knife. One they wielded every time you came home with a B+. Every time you hesitated over a math problem.

“Armin wouldn’t have needed help.”

“Armin probably studied ahead.”

“Why don’t you ask that boy for tutoring? Maybe he could teach you how to be focused.”

You hated it. Hated him.

No — not him. Armin was never cruel. Never arrogant. He never so much as bragged about his grades. He was soft-spoken, helpful, and still smiled the same way he did years ago.

But every time you saw him in the hallway, the disappointment on your parents’ faces echoed in your mind. You saw comparisons written in their eyes like flashing neon signs. And so, your smiles for him became nods. You kind words for him became silence.

He noticed that, too.

One spring afternoon, you stood by the vending machine near the library, waiting for it to drop the drink you'd just paid for. Your headphones dangled from one ear, music paused, eyes fixed on the stubborn can stuck inside.

“That one’s a pain, huh?”

You turned.

Armin stood beside you, a bit taller now, hair a little longer and pushed back from his face, but still him. The same calm blue eyes. The same warm tone.

You blinked. “Yeah.”

He gave a small chuckle and tapped the machine lightly with his palm. “It always gets stuck. I had to rock it once just to get a bag of chips out.”

You stayed quiet. Not cold exactly — but not warm either.

Armin hesitated. You could feel it in the way his weight shifted from foot to foot, his fingers fiddling with the strap of his backpack. “Um… I hope this isn’t weird, but—” he glanced at you — “have I… done something to upset you?”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“I just—” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I remember in middle school you were always… well, I guess I thought you were nice. You’d always say hi. Smile. But these past couple years… you’ve been… distant. Cold, sometimes. And I don’t mean to pry. I just… wanted to ask. In case I did something.”

Your heart sank.

He looked genuinely concerned, and you wondered if he’d spent actual time wondering if he had hurt you. Like your silence had been a wound he didn’t know how to fix.

You looked away. The drink finally fell, hitting the bottom with a dull thud.

“You didn’t do anything,” you said quietly. “It’s not your fault.”

He tilted his head, confused.

You sighed and looked up at the ceiling as if the words you needed were written there. “You’re just… kind of a symbol of something. Of pressure. Of expectations I didn’t ask for.”

You didn’t mean to sound bitter. But it slipped out anyway.

Armin was silent for a moment. “Expectations?”

“My parents saw you at some meeting,” you said, finally looking at him. “They decided you were the standard I had to meet. I’ve been compared to you ever since. ‘Why aren’t you like Armin?’ ‘Armin’s probably studying.’ ‘Maybe you should learn from him.’”

His face fell. “I… I didn’t know.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” you mumbled. “You were never mean. Never did anything wrong. That’s probably what made it worse. You were nice. Brilliant. Polite. And all I could think was, great — now I have to compete with that.”

Silence.

Then, he said, voice barely above a whisper, “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

Your eyes flicked to him. His expression wasn’t defensive. It was gentle — maybe even sad.

“I was just trying to survive school,” he said. “I studied a lot because… I didn’t feel good at anything else. I wasn’t popular. I wasn’t athletic. Others constantly teased me for that. I was just the quiet kid with books. It wasn’t about being better than anyone. I was just scared of being invisible.”

Your chest tightened.

“I didn’t know I made you feel lesser,” he added. “I wouldn’t have wanted that. Especially not from you.”

You let the silence settle between you like dust.

Then: “I had a crush on you once.”

He blinked. “What?”

You shrugged, looking down at your shoes. “Back in middle school. It was huge. But I never told anyone because my siblings would’ve tormented me.”

He flushed, completely caught off guard. “I… I didn’t know.”

“I got over it,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “By the time high school came around, everything felt different.”

He nodded slowly. “It usually does.”

The air between you was less tense now. Like the wires had untangled.

You reached for your drink. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for being cold.”

“And I’m sorry for being a reminder of something painful,” he replied softly.

They stood in silence again, but it wasn’t awkward anymore. Just quiet. Comfortable, even.

Before you turned to go, Armin spoke up.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I never stopped noticing you,” he said, cheeks faintly red. “Even when you stopped looking at me.”

You stared at him, caught off-guard.

And maybe, in the faint light of that forgotten hallway, something stirred again.

Not a crush. Not like before. But the soft echo of something that had once been buried.

[sahmiarlert11]

My Dearest Y/N,

I don’t know how to start this letter. I don’t even know if I have the right to write to you after everything, after the way we fell apart. But I need you to hear this—no, I need to say this, even if you never read it.

I miss you. I know that’s selfish to say. I know it’s unfair, especially after how things ended. But I miss you in ways I never thought I could miss a person. It’s in the quiet moments, when the world slows down, that I feel your absence the most. It’s in the spaces where your laughter used to echo, in the places where your warmth used to linger. I catch myself looking for you in the crowds, half-expecting to turn around and see you standing there, arms crossed, with that look you always gave me when you were about to tease me. But you’re not there. And I have to remind myself—again and again—that you won’t be.

I keep replaying our last conversation in my head, searching for the exact moment everything shattered. Maybe it was in the words we left unspoken. Maybe it was in the way we both hesitated, waiting for the other to say something that would make it all okay. Or maybe it was inevitable. Maybe we were always meant to fall apart. But even if that’s true, I don’t think I’ll ever stop wishing we hadn’t.

Y/N, I don’t regret loving you. I never will. Loving you was the most natural thing in the world for me. It still is. You were my safe place, the one person I could always turn to, the person who understood me in ways no one else ever could. You saw me—truly saw me—even in the moments when I struggled to see myself. And I don’t think I ever told you enough how much that meant to me. How much you meant to me.

I keep wondering if you’ve been okay. I know you’re strong—you always have been—but I also know how deeply you feel things, even if you don’t always say it. I wonder if you’ve been eating properly, if you’re getting enough rest, if you’re still watching the sun set the way we used to together. I hope you are. I hope you still find beauty in the world, even if I’m not beside you to see it with you.

I don’t know if I should be saying any of this. Maybe you’ve already moved on. Maybe you’ve closed this chapter of your life and I’m just a memory now, something distant, something faded. If that’s the case, I won’t ask you to look back. I would never ask you to hold onto something that only brings you pain. But if some part of you still thinks of me, still misses me even a fraction of how much I miss you, I just want you to know that you were loved. That you are loved. And you always will be.

Even if we never find our way back to each other, even if we remain nothing more than a bittersweet story, I will carry you with me.

Always.

Yours, even still,

Armin

[sahmiarlert11]

COFFEE

The first time you see him, it's by pure accident.

You're standing in line at the bustling campus café, clutching your phone nervously as you scroll through emails and half-listen to the hum of conversation around you. It’s only your second week at university, and even though you’re starting to recognize a few faces, everything still feels unfamiliar — too big, too loud, too fast. The café smells like fresh espresso and warm pastries, and the chatter feels like white noise against the anxious fluttering in your chest.

Then you hear it.

A soft, polite voice:

"Hey! What can I get for you?"

You look up — and there he is.

He’s standing behind the counter with a friendly but slightly shy smile, wearing the café’s navy apron over a simple white t-shirt, sleeves rolled up just a bit, revealing his lean arms. His blond hair is soft and neat, the kind of neat that looks intentional, and his blue eyes — they’re impossibly kind. They remind you of the ocean on a clear day, warm and endless and gentle. He looks at you with the sort of attentiveness that makes your heart flutter, as if you’re the only person in the entire café.

You panic.

You barely manage to stammer out, "Uh... caramel latte, please."

He smiles — soft, sweet, genuine. "Coming right up."

You try not to stare as he turns around, expertly working the espresso machine. His movements are smooth and practiced, and there’s a quiet grace in the way he does even the simplest tasks. You realize you’re still staring at him when he sets the cup down on the counter with a gentle smile.

"Here you go. Have a great day."

Your fingers brush when you take the cup from him. It’s nothing — just a moment — but it’s enough to send a little spark running up your arm.

You mumble a thank-you and all but flee the café, your heart racing for reasons you can’t quite explain yet.

After that, you start going to the café more often.

At first, you tell yourself it’s just because the coffee is good. Then you tell yourself it’s because the café is quiet and comforting and a good place to study between classes. But deep down, you know the truth.

It’s because of him.

Because every time you walk through those doors, your eyes instinctively search for the blond barista behind the counter. And every time he’s there, he greets you with that same soft smile, that same gentle voice that makes your heart feel lighter, even on the hardest days.

You learn his name a week later — from the little pin on his apron.

Armin.

It suits him, you think. Soft around the edges, but something sturdy in the middle.

You never share classes with him — your schedules and courses are completely different. You’re studying literature and creative writing, while you overhear him mentioning marine biology to a coworker once. It makes sense, you think, with eyes like the ocean.

But you do talk.

At first, it’s just polite small talk over the counter.

"Busy day?"

"Good luck on your exams."

"Cold out today, huh?"

But slowly, bit by bit, those conversations stretch. They linger.

He starts asking about your major, and you shyly tell him you love writing. He listens, genuinely listens, and smiles like he thinks that’s the most interesting thing in the world. You ask about his studies, and his eyes light up as he talks about marine ecosystems and coral reefs and the dream of one day traveling to see the ocean in person.

You don’t think anyone has ever looked so beautiful talking about plankton.

Some days, you sit by the window with your laptop open, pretending to type while sneaking glances at him. And some days, when the café isn’t too busy, he wipes down the counter slowly just so he can keep chatting with you a little longer.

It’s small things that make your heart race.

The way he always remembers your order without asking.

The way he leans forward just a little when you talk, as though fascinated by the conversation between you both.

The way he softly laughs when you nervously ramble.

You start wondering if he notices you the way you notice him.

One chilly autumn afternoon, you’re sitting in your usual spot by the window, your hands cupped around a warm latte, trying to write an essay but mostly just stealing glances at Armin.

It’s not busy today.

You feel your heart jump when you see him finish wiping down a table and glance toward you. He hesitates for half a second, then slowly makes his way over, tugging off his apron and draping it over a chair before sitting across from you.

"Hey," he says, a little breathless, like maybe he was nervous too.

"Hi," you breathe, feeling your cheeks heat up.

He gestures to your laptop. "What are you working on?"

You try to explain, but halfway through, you start to ramble. Your words trip over themselves, and you find yourself apologizing, embarrassed.

But he just smiles. That same soft, patient smile.

"I like how passionate you are," he says quietly. "It’s nice. You light up when you talk about writing."

You blink, startled. No one’s ever said that to you before.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. He chuckles softly and looks down, fingers nervously tapping on the table.

"I’m glad I sat down," he admits, his voice shy. "I’ve... been wanting to talk to you properly for a while."

Your heart stops. "You have?"

He nods, his cheeks pink. "Yeah. You always seem so sweet. And I...I kind of look forward to you coming in."

You feel like the air’s been knocked out of you.

For a moment, the two of you just sit there in silence, hearts racing, eyes darting, both too shy to say more.

Finally, he clears his throat, gathering his courage. "Would it be weird if I asked if you wanted to maybe hang out sometime? Outside of here?"

You can barely breathe.

"I’d really like that," you whisper.

His smile could light up the whole room.

From then on, everything changes.

You still visit the café, but now, there’s something electric in the air between you. Armin starts slipping you little notes with your coffee: tiny compliments, little facts about the ocean, silly jokes that make you giggle to yourself.

You meet up on campus — he waits for you after your classes sometimes, walking you to the library with his hands shoved in his pockets, his cheeks pink. He listens when you talk, genuinely listens, and when you ramble or get shy, he looks at you with such tenderness that it almost makes you tear up.

You learn that he’s just as shy as you are, and that makes your heart ache in the sweetest way.

There are moments when your hands brush, and both of you freeze, hearts pounding. Moments where you catch him looking at you, and he quickly looks away, flustered. Moments where you’re sitting together on the campus lawn, sharing headphones, your shoulder pressed against his, and you swear you can feel his heartbeat racing just as fast as yours.

One evening, just as the sun sets, he walks you to your dorm.

You pause outside the door, neither of you wanting to say goodbye.

He hesitates for a moment, then quietly says, "You make me really happy, you know."

You look up at him, your heart in your throat.

"Me too," you whisper. "You make me really happy too."

He takes a shaky breath.

"Can I...?" He trails off, looking flustered, but you know what he’s asking.

You nod.

And then he leans down, so gently, so carefully, and presses the softest kiss to your forehead.

Your heart melts.

When he pulls back, his face is red, and he stammers out, "G-goodnight," before practically running down the hall.

You stand there for a long moment, your face buried in your hands, heart so full you think it might burst.

Weeks pass, and the two of you only grow closer.

Study dates in the library, coffee runs, late-night walks around campus wrapped in shared scarves. He reads your writing; you listen to him ramble about marine life.

Sometimes, you talk about fears and dreams and insecurities. He holds your hand through it all — sometimes shyly, sometimes tightly, always gently.

And one night, when the stars are bright above campus, he looks at you with cheeks tinted pink and whispers, "I think I’m falling in love with you."

Your heart finally lets itself believe it.

"Me too," you whisper back, reaching over to hold his hand, looking at him as though he was precious.

Because he is.

And he always will be.

[sahmiarlert11]

"Drunken Confessions"

The night air is cool against your flushed skin, the distant hum of streetlights buzzing as you sway slightly, seated on the curb outside the house party you never wanted to attend in the first place. Your head is light, your vision a little blurry, and your heart—God, your heart is heavy.

You don’t even remember how many drinks you had. You don’t even like drinking. But the moment you had started feeling that familiar ache creeping into your chest, the moment you realized that once again your feelings would never be heard, never be understood—well, it was easier to drown in something stronger than your own emotions.

And now, here you are, hugging your knees to your chest, eyes stinging with unshed tears, a lump lodged so firmly in your throat it feels like it’s choking you.

You barely register the hurried footsteps approaching.

“Y/N?”

His voice.

That soft, familiar voice, laced with concern.

You lift your head sluggishly, blinking up at Armin Arlert as he crouches down beside you, blue eyes searching your face, his brows knitted in worry.

“What happened?” he asks gently. His fingers twitch like he wants to touch you, to comfort you, but he hesitates. Always so respectful, so careful with you.

That—that—is what finally breaks you.

A hiccup leaves your lips before the dam shatters, and suddenly you’re sobbing, hands gripping at the fabric of your jumper as if it can hold you together.

“You—!” Your voice comes out wobbly, thick with emotion, but the words won’t stop. “You’re just—so—so—beautiful.”

Armin blinks. “…What?”

“I mean it!” You wail, rubbing at your eyes aggressively, only for more tears to spill over. “You—your stupidly beautiful face! Your stupidly soft-looking hair! Your—your goddamn ocean eyes that make me feel like I’m drowning every time you look at me!”

You don’t even realize you’re clutching at his sleeve until he stiffens, startled by your sudden closeness. But he doesn’t move away. He never does.

“You—you don’t get it,” you sniffle, trying to steady yourself, but everything is spinning. Or maybe that’s just him—because he’s always spinning in your head, a storm you can never escape. “You think—you think you’re just some ordinary guy. That you’re weak. That you’re not enough. But you’re—God, Armin—”

Your breath hitches, your grip on his sleeve tightening.

“You’re everything.”

His eyes widen, lips parting slightly, but you barrel on, too lost in the emotions that have been trapped inside you for so long.

“You’re kind. You’re gentle. You always know what to say. You always listen, even when no one else does. You—” A sob breaks your words apart. “You make me feel safe.”

You laugh—wet and shaky. “And—and it’s so annoying because you don’t even realize it! You don’t realize how much you mean to people! How much you mean to me!”

Armin’s breath catches.

You’re still ranting, still spilling your heart onto the pavement between you, voice growing more desperate with each word.

“I love—I love your mind, Armin! The way you think, the way you dream, the way you care—I love all of it! I love how you’re so patient with me, even when I don’t deserve it! I love—” Your voice breaks entirely now, eyes squeezing shut as you whisper, “I love you.”

Silence.

The world stills.

When you finally dare to look up, Armin is staring at you like you’ve just told him the sky isn’t real. His mouth is slightly open, his hands clenched at his sides like he’s trying to contain something—something too big for him to hold in.

“Y/N,” he breathes, voice trembling.

But you shake your head frantically, a fresh wave of panic hitting you. “Wait—no, I didn’t mean—”

You try to stand, to flee before you can humiliate yourself further, but your legs betray you, wobbling dangerously.

And then—warm hands catch your arms. Steady you.

Armin.

You freeze as he looks at you, really looks at you. His face is unreadable, but his hands are firm, grounding.

“…Let’s get you home,” he finally says, voice impossibly soft.

And just like that, the fight leaves you.

Because even if he doesn’t say anything else, even if he never returns your feelings—he’s still here. Holding you. Keeping you safe.

Just like always.

--------------------------------

The night air feels heavier now. Or maybe that's just your head—pounding, spinning, thick with exhaustion and the aftershocks of your own emotions.

You don’t know how long you’ve been walking, but you do know Armin hasn’t let go of you once. His fingers remain wrapped gently around your wrist, not tight enough to restrain you, but firm enough to make sure you don’t stumble.

It’s infuriating.

It’s comforting.

It’s him.

“…You don’t have to do this, you know,” you mumble, voice hoarse from crying. “I can get home by myself.”

“You can barely walk straight,” Armin points out, not unkindly. “And I—” His voice catches, like he’s trying to steady himself. “I want to.”

That shouldn’t make your chest ache more, but it does.

Because of course he wants to. Of course Armin, with his ocean eyes and soft voice and impossibly big heart, would still be here even after you just threw your entire soul at his feet.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Forget what I said, okay?”

Silence.

You stop walking. “Armin.”

He stops too, his hand still loose around your wrist. But he doesn’t look at you.

“…I can’t.” His voice is quiet, almost fragile.

Your breath hitches.

Slowly, carefully, he turns to face you. The streetlamp above casts a faint glow over him, highlighting the faintest pink dusting his cheeks. But his eyes—his eyes—are so open, so bare, so utterly unreadable and yet somehow the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen them.

“How am I supposed to forget something like that?” he asks.

You freeze.

“You—” He swallows, his grip on you tightening for the first time all night. “You meant it, didn’t you?”

Your pulse roars in your ears.

You’re everything.

You make me feel safe.

I love you.

The words come rushing back all at once, suffocating you. But before you can spiral, before you can run—

“I need to know,” Armin whispers. “Was it just the alcohol?”

It feels like the world is holding its breath.

And then—

You shake your head.

Armin’s lips part slightly, his eyes searching yours like he’s daring to believe it.

“I meant it,” you whisper, throat tight. “I meant all of it.”

His breath shudders. “Y/N…”

But you’re already stepping back, panic creeping in. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t—”

“I do.”

Two words. Just two. But they slam into you like a tidal wave.

You stare at him, blinking rapidly, trying to understand, to process, but your brain is still foggy, still struggling to believe this is real. “What?”

Armin takes a deep breath, then another, like he’s about to step off the edge of something terrifying. And then, finally—

“I care about you,” he says, voice so full of sincerity it almost knocks you off balance. “More than I know how to say.”

Your heart clenches.

You want to believe him. You really want to believe him.

But—

“…Not the way I do.” Your voice is small. “Not the way I—”

“Y/N”

His fingers—still wrapped around your wrist—shift, sliding down until his hand really holds yours. His palm is warm, his grip cautious but certain.

“Let’s talk about this when you’re sober.”

Your lips tremble. “And if you regret this in the morning?”

Armin shakes his head, smiling—smiling—and somehow, somehow, it’s the most sure you’ve ever seen him.

“I won’t.”

------------------

Morning comes too soon.

Sunlight spills through your bedroom window, warm and unrelenting, dragging you from sleep before you’re ready. Your head pounds dully—less from the alcohol, more from the emotional storm you drowned in last night.

And then it hits you.

The party. The crying. Armin.

Your eyes snap open.

Your breath hitches as flashes of last night reel through your mind in sharp, unforgiving detail—your drunken, tear-soaked confession, Armin’s quiet, gentle response, the way he held your hand and told you he wouldn’t forget.

A groan escapes your lips as you throw an arm over your face. Oh my God.

You actually said all of that out loud.

The embarrassment is unbearable. You want to disappear, to rewind time, to evaporate, but reality won’t let you. Because your phone—your traitorous phone—buzzes from your bedside table, and one name blinks on the screen.

Armin.

Your heart stops.

For a moment, you just stare, debating if you should answer, if you should ever face him again. Maybe if you pretend last night never happened, he’ll follow your lead. Maybe he’ll laugh it off, call it nothing, and you can go back to—

You exhale sharply. No.

You meant what you said. And if Armin truly didn’t care, he wouldn’t be calling.

So, with shaking hands, you pick up.

“…Hello?”

A soft chuckle filters through the receiver, and even through your own nerves, it’s a sound that soothes you. “You sound nervous.”

“I am nervous,” you mutter, gripping the blanket over your lap. “I made a fool of myself last night, and you know it.”

Another small laugh—this one more fond than amused. “You didn’t.”

You scoff. “Oh, really? So I didn’t drunkenly rant about how beautiful you are for, what, fifteen minutes straight?”

“…Okay, maybe that part happened.”

A strangled noise leaves you as you drop your face into your hands. “Kill me. Just do it. Right now.”

“Y/N”

Your breath stills.

Because suddenly, his voice is different. Softer.

You can almost see the way he’d be looking at you if he were here—eyes warm, hesitant, but sure. Just like last night.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “I didn’t forget.”

You swallow hard, gripping the blanket tighter. “…You said you cared about me.”

“I do.”

A pause.

“Armin,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “I don’t think you understand how much last night meant to me. I wasn’t just saying those things because I was drunk. I—I’ve felt that way for so long, and I was so sure you’d never—”

“I know,” he interrupts gently. “And I’m sorry. I should’ve seen it sooner.”

Your fingers tighten around your phone. “…Seen what?”

“That I feel the same way.”

The world stops.

You don’t breathe. You don’t move. You just sit there, stunned, the words echoing over and over in your head until you’re not even sure if you heard them right.

“Y/N?” Armin’s voice is quiet, hesitant.

You shake your head rapidly, as if he can see you. “Wait—wait, say that again.”

A small, nervous laugh. “I—” He takes a deep breath. “I like you, Y/N. More than I should’ve let myself admit.”

Your chest is so full, you think it might burst.

It doesn’t feel real. Not when you spent so long convincing yourself it was impossible, that Armin Arlert—gentle, wonderful, Armin—could never see you the way you saw him.

But here he is.

Here he is.

“I want to see you,” he says suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. “If you want to.”

Your throat tightens. “Right now?”

“Yeah.” A small pause. Then, a soft, nervous laugh. “I—kind of don’t want to wait anymore.”

You press your knuckles against your lips, heartbeat rapid. Then, before you can overthink, before fear can creep in—

“…Okay.”

Silence stretches between you for a beat. Then—

“…Okay,” he echoes, voice lighter, relieved.

You don’t know what’s going to happen next. But right now, for the first time in forever—

You don’t care.

Because Armin is coming. And this time, he’s coming for you.