Most people assumed Rafael Blake only knew three things:
How to fight.
How to lift heavy things.
And how to make protein smoothies that tasted like drywall.
But Leon knew better.
Rafael had layers—like steel wrapped in silence.
⸻
It was Sunday morning, and the dorm was quiet. Felix was out "accidentally" bumping into Naomi again. Adrian was debugging a drone that refused to fly straight.
Leon walked into their shared room to find Rafael alone, sitting on the windowsill, staring out at the empty football field.
He was holding something.
A photograph.
Leon had seen it before—creased edges, black-and-white, a girl with a shy smile and curly hair.
"You okay?" Leon asked.
Rafael didn't look away from the window.
"You ever care about someone so much it makes you furious?"
Leon blinked. "Yes."
Rafael nodded slowly. "Then you get it."
⸻
He handed Leon the photo.
"Her name was Mila."
Leon didn't speak.
"We met in sixth grade. She used to beat me at math. Laughed like thunder. I thought I'd marry her."
A pause.
"She died two years ago. Brain aneurysm. No warning."
Leon's chest tightened.
"You never talked about her."
"I couldn't. Talking meant admitting she was real. That the pain is real."
Rafael stood up, pacing slowly.
"People think I lift weights to get strong. I don't. I lift so the pain has somewhere to go."
He turned, finally facing Leon.
"So when you say you like Evelyn… don't waste it."
Leon nodded.
"I won't."
Rafael smiled—rare and quiet.
"Then you're already doing better than I did."
⸻
Later that night, Rafael taped Mila's photo to the inside of his locker door.
And beneath it, in small block letters, he wrote:
Strength doesn't mean silence.