9. Hungry to Theft #2
The words are flat. Emotionless. Like they’re a simple fact of life.
Like he’s accepted them as truth.
I shake my head. "That’s not true."
His eyes snap back to me, sharp, challenging. I hold his stare, refusing to back down.
"You care," I say simply. "And that’s enough."
He stills.
I lean in slightly, my voice steady. "You are enough."
The words hang between us, heavier than I expected, settling deep into the silence.
His breathing steadies. His hands relax just slightly, his grip on the bread loosening. His shoulders don’t seem as tight, his posture not as rigid.
For the first time since stepping into this nightmare, he looks less like a soldier.
And more like a boy.
Damian shifts, his movements slow, deliberate. The weight of my words still lingers in the air between us, pressing down, wrapping around him like something unfamiliar.
But then, something changes.
A quiet determination settles into his small frame, not loud or dramatic, but steady—the kind of strength that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud to be understood.
He takes a breath, then turns to Alessandra.
With a gentleness that contradicts the hard edges of his expression, he reaches out, taking her small hand in his. His fingers curl around hers securely, anchoring her, grounding her.
She blinks up at him, still sleepy, but when she sees the look on his face, she doesn’t question him.
She just nods, trusting him like she always does.
Damian’s grip on Alessandra’s hand is steady as he helps her up. Even though she’s small, her body frail from hunger, he doesn’t rush her. He doesn’t let go until he’s sure she’s stable, until she gives him the slightest nod of reassurance.
The way he watches her, the way his fingers tighten for just a second longer than necessary—this is everything to him. She is everything.
The quiet moment between them settles deep in my chest, pressing against my ribs.
He’s only ten. But he already understands responsibility in a way most grown men never will.
He turns to me then, his expression shifting. His eyes are darker now, filled with something unshakable. The kind of resolve that isn’t loud or dramatic, but absolute.
"I won’t let her go hungry again."
There’s no hesitation in his voice. No doubt.
Just a vow.
I nod.
"And you won’t be alone."
Something flickers across his face, so fast I almost miss it. A hesitation. A question.
Not because he doesn’t want to believe me. But because he doesn’t know how. Because people don’t stay. They don’t keep their promises. They don’t mean it. At least, not in his world.
He stares at me for a long moment, memorizing me. Not just my face, but everything. Like he knows this moment won’t last. Like part of him is already preparing to wake up, to watch me fade into nothing.
But for the first time, I see something else in his eyes. Not trust. Not yet. But maybe—just maybe—hope.
The night is quiet as I walk beside them, their small footsteps soft against the uneven pavement. Damian holds Alessandra’s hand tightly, his grip firm but gentle, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, she’ll slip away.
She stays close to him, leaning against his side, her tiny frame nearly swallowed by his oversized hoodie. Even as exhaustion pulls at her, she follows where he leads, trusting him with the kind of unwavering faith that makes my heart ache.
I stay just a step behind them, my presence a silent shadow at their backs.
For the first time since entering this nightmare, I’m not invisible.
And neither is my existence in this moment.
Damian glances at me once, his sharp eyes assessing, memorizing, questioning. But he doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t ask who I am.
Doesn’t ask why I’m still here.
Maybe he knows I won’t answer.
Or maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t want to know.
Because that would mean admitting that I won’t be here forever.
That this moment isn’t real.
That whatever small comfort I’ve given him tonight will disappear.
As we approach the rundown apartment, the tension in my chest tightens. The building looms ahead, dark and lifeless, the same place where I first saw them—hungry, neglected, forgotten.
But now, it feels different.
It isn’t just a place Damian is trapped in anymore.
It’s the place he’s chosen to return to.
Because he has someone to protect.
Alessandra rubs her eyes sleepily, murmuring something under her breath as Damian leads her inside. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t slow down.
He just keeps going.
Because that’s what Damian does.
He survives.
I follow them up the creaky steps, my feet silent against the worn floorboards. Damian doesn’t turn around again, doesn’t acknowledge me as we step through the doorway.
And the moment his small figure disappears inside—
Everything fades.
The air shifts. The world tilts.
I blink—and the apartment is gone.
The nightmare dissolves, the air around me lightening, but the weight in my chest remains unbearable. My breath is unsteady, my hands trembling at my sides as if my body still hasn’t caught up to what my mind has just endured. What I’ve just learned.
I had always known Damian was strong. I had seen it in the way he carried himself, in the way he never flinched when the world tried to break him. But I never understood where that strength came from. Not like this. Not until now.
This wasn’t just about hunger. It was about abandonment. About growing up knowing no one was coming to help him. No one was going to save them. So he had to become the savior. He had to become something more than a child.
And he did.
At just ten years old, he had already learned how to shoulder the weight of the world for someone else. He had already made a choice that most people never have to make—to sacrifice, to fight, to endure. Not for himself, but for her. For Alessandra.
And suddenly, I realize something that steals the breath from my lungs.
That’s what love looks like to Damian.
Not words. Not empty promises. Not fleeting affection. Love, to him, is protection. Love is making sure the people who matter never have to suffer the way he did. Love is sacrifice.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my throat tight, my chest aching. How long has he carried that weight alone? How long has he convinced himself that he has to be the one to bear it all?
And suddenly, I know.
I can’t let him.
Not anymore.
I love him. Not because of his strength, but because of the quiet, unshakable devotion beneath it. Because of the boy who starved so his sister could eat, the boy who taught himself how to survive when no one else cared if he lived. The boy who gave everything, even when he had nothing.