What love costs:

The silence stretched for weeks. Noah threw himself into his art, preparing a submission for a scholarship portfolio. Eli faded into the background, sensing what Noah wasn't ready to say aloud - that Daniel's shadow still lingered.

Daniel, meanwhile, was unraveling. His parents had doubled down, signing him up for weekly meetings with a counselor from their church. He went, nodded, lied. Told them he was trying. He hated every second.

One night, he sat across from his mom as she folded laundry.

"You know," she said casually, "you'll thank us someday. When you have a wife, children. This? confusion will be a blip."

Daniel didn't respond. But later, in the bathroom with the shower running to cover the noise, he cried until he couldn't breathe.

Then he packed a bag.

He didn't even know where he was going - just not there.

He showed up at Noah's door again, this time sober and broken.

"I left," he said. "They won't help me. Not really. They just want me gone."

Noah stared at him. "Are you staying?"

"I don't have anywhere else."

Noah opened the door.

This time, he didn't ask questions. He let Daniel sleep on the couch, make coffee in the morning, sit beside him during movies. And slowly, Daniel started to unlearn the shame he'd been taught. It wasn't a straight line. Some days he still flinched at his own reflection.

But Noah was patient.

Love wasn't perfect. It was messy. Uneven.

But it was real.

And slowly, Daniel began to believe he deserved it.