You were always the bright one—smiles in the hallways, laughter that could make even the teachers grin. And him? He was the complete opposite. Tall, brooding, always hiding behind a hoodie and a scowl.

People whispered about how someone like you could ever end up with someone like him.

But they didn't know how, in tenth grade, when you found him sitting alone behind the gym, looking like the whole world had let him down, you had just plopped down beside him without asking.

"I'm not leaving until you smile," you'd said with a stubborn little grin.

He rolled his eyes. "Good luck with that."

You stayed anyway. You talked about everything—your favorite songs, how you wanted to see the world, how you once tried to bake cookies and set the microwave on fire.

And he listened. 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 listened, like no one else ever did.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. He was still grumpy, still muttering about how loud and annoying you were—but he started carrying an extra hoodie for you when it rained, waiting by your locker with a scowl but always, always showing up.

One afternoon, in your senior year, he pulled you aside behind the bleachers, cheeks redder than you'd ever seen.

"You're annoying," he muttered, voice low.

You smiled up at him. "Love you too."

And when he kissed you, it felt like all the pieces finally clicked into place. His grumpy heart, your sunshine soul—perfect, in their own messy way.

You'd been 𝘩𝘪𝘴 light.

He'd been 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 anchor.

High school sweethearts. Forever, if he had any say in it.