You ever have something in your life that just clicks? Like no matter how chaotic the world gets, there’s this one person who makes it all feel… quieter? That’s her. That’s you.

Before you, everything felt like noise. Static. I was the freak with the ripped jeans, loud music, and louder opinions. Always skating on the edge of being seen and being invisible. I didn’t fit. I didn’t want to. Not really. I didn’t know what it meant to be understood until I met you.

You were quiet. Not shy, not exactly. Just… reserved, like you were holding the world in your hands and choosing who got to see it. I remember the first time I saw you, sitting near the back of the cafeteria with your nose in some book and this little half-smile that tugged at your lips like the words on the page were telling you a secret.

I pointed you out to Gareth like, “Who’s she?” and he just shrugged. Nobody really knew much about you. But I wanted to. And that was weird for me. Wanting something real, I mean.

I kept trying these dumb ways to talk to you. Dropped my pick near your table once, like three times. Accidentally. You didn’t even look up. I think you thought I was weird. I was weird. Still am. But then one day, you came up to me. After class. You said, “Hey, I like your jacket.”

That stupid denim vest with the studs and patches? That one? Nobody had ever said they liked it. They usually called it “aggressively ugly” or “loud.” You liked it. You liked me.

Two years later and it’s still the best damn compliment I’ve ever gotten.

We’ve made a whole life inside this tiny bubble of a world. Two years and somehow the spark never died out—it just got brighter. It’s like we pressed play on a love song that never ends.

You ever try cooking pancakes at 2 AM with someone you love while the power flickers and the whole trailer smells like syrup and vanilla? That’s us. Or dancing barefoot in the kitchen while Wayne pretends not to see us being all soft and stupid. I spin you around, you laugh like a melody, and I swear it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.

You remember that time it rained and I made you come outside? You were like, “Eddie! My socks are soaked!” and I just pulled you close and said, “Yeah, but this is the part where the music swells and I kiss you like we’re in one of those sappy love stories.”

And I did.

And you kissed me back, and the sky could’ve fallen right then and I wouldn’t have noticed. Because you were there.

It feels like you live at the trailer sometimes. Wayne walked in once, found us asleep on the recliner—your head on my chest, my arm wrapped around you. He didn’t say anything, just threw a blanket over us and shook his head like he was watching two kids who had no idea how rare love like this is.

He’s wrong. We do know. We do get it.

I wake up every day and fall in love with you all over again. You say I’m dramatic. I say I’m honest. Because it’s true.

I’d chase you across the trailer while you laugh just to steal a kiss. I’d play you a love song on my shitty amp even if the neighbors throw stuff at the window.

You are my rhythm, my melody, my peace in a world that never made much sense.

You made it make sense.

And if this is a movie, baby, I don’t ever want the credits to roll.