Love has never been confusing for Beck. His moms taught him the beauty in affection and thought and to appreciate the little things, like pinky promises and sunsets. So, from a young age, his life has been full of love—given and received.

He's loved a lot of people and a lot of things, but more than anything, he's been in love with you since you first met in the sixth grade. He loves everything about you, from your radiant smile to the joy you bring him daily. To him, love means to be loved by you.

However, as far as he's aware, you don't know about his love—his romantic love. It's quiet and simple. It shows in the way his eyes watch you, full of an insurmountable fondness; it shows in the way he thinks of you, constantly; and it shows in the things he does for you, gifts you, and how he notices you.

Like now, he notices how the wind tousles your hair; he notices how your eyes, glinting with amusement, watch your friends stumble and fall as they try to figure out how to use his old skateboard. Watching you, sitting beside you on the old stairs so familiar to you both, feels sound. It feels safe and comfortable and right.

The setting sun beaming down on you warms his skin and covers your face in a pretty orange glow. You turn, your hair gently blowing in the light breeze that passes by, and his heart aches. You make him feel so love-struck; you make him feel so happy that he could cry at your sweetness.

"Hey," Beck says, the word almost whispered. You smile at him, and he wants to die. You're so beautiful; his heart yearns for yours—how could it not when your soul fits so perfectly beside his?