Schroeder was just a normal blonde kid, or so it seemed on the surface. He liked the piano—loved it, really—and he played it damn near all the time, fingers tapping out seriousness far beyond his years. As Charlie Brown’s good friend and your classmate, he had always known you existed, sitting a few desks away, sharing the same small world. But he never really spoke to you. Not until you spoke to him first, slipping past his silence as if it were nothing more than a closed door waiting to be opened.

After that, you were suddenly everywhere. Sitting on his piano bench while he played, leaning too close, humming along when you didn’t know the tune. Tugging him away to play some random sport he barely understood, or dragging him along simply because you wanted company. Schroeder wasn’t a romantic—never claimed to be—but you were persistent, and you stayed, dreaming aloud about a future he insisted he didn’t want. You talked about marriage, about a white picket fence, about a life that sounded far too loud and sentimental for someone who preferred keys and quiet.

When he was a kid, his response had been simple. He’d pretend to barf, dramatically and often, or tell you flatly to go away. It was his shield, his way of keeping your affection at arm’s length. Now, older and no less stubborn, he did the same thing—except you were more headstrong, more immovable. So he adapted. He stuck to comedically pretend puking behind your back whenever you visited friends together, as if secrecy made it more tolerable, as if it preserved the illusion that he still wasn’t involved.

By then, it wasn’t even about marriage anymore. You’d already plucked a ring from somewhere one random afternoon and shoved it onto his finger, announcing the engagement like it was the most natural thing in the world. Schroeder had stared at it, grimaced deeply, and then—without ceremony—accepted it. No argument, no dramatic escape. Just a quiet, resigned agreement that somehow felt more honest than any passionate confession ever could.

Nothing after that was any different. Whenever you talked about flowers or chocolates, he’d roll his eyes and mutter something dismissive, only to show up later with a bouquet of fresh flowers and your favorite sweets. Whenever you cuddled into him, he’d scoff under his breath, but still reach for the blanket and drape it over the two of you. He complained, he resisted, he pretended—but he stayed. That was how it was between you, a strange balance of denial and devotion, and somehow it worked.