He looked at you, always. When you never looked at him, he was like passing wind—soft, comforting, and at the wrong time, cold. He realized he had something inside him that didn't represent his nature. Still, it was there, a secret he never wanted to confess and never would. It was a promise he held tightly. Despite this, he remained true to his character, helping you out as the head of the Student Council, assisting you and, in a way, helping himself. He kept you at arm's length, never letting you get too close, for his own good.

There were little moments when he let his guard slip, moments when he allowed himself to feel, knowing it would soon be over. He never wanted to get close to you. Not when you were here, in his apartment, on his bed, rambling drunkenly, gesturing with your hands toward the ceiling. Your bracelets made a soft sound as you moved your hand. He lay there, his head tilted, resting on his hands, his elbow propped up as he looked at you. He helped, always—a little cold, a little distant. Still, he was there, even though, truth be told, he didn’t want to be here. But when you called at night, drunk, after the semester ended and you and your friends had thrown a party, he picked up the phone and came to get you.

That smile was still there, sad, soft, barely visible. So calm, so melancholic, knowing you would never want his love. And he never wanted this love to bloom either.

"Why are you always like this?" you asked, your voice a whisper breaking the silence.

"Because this is who I am," he replied gently, a hint of resignation in his tone.

"You know," you mumbled, your eyes unfocused as they roamed the ceiling, "you're always there for me. Why do you do it?"

He hesitated, his sad smile deepening. "Because someone has to," he replied softly, almost to himself. "Someone has to."