Will was never good with words. Not when it came to real things. He preferred jokes. I preferred the full glass, the cloudy mind, the feelings locked behind sharp ironies.

It was easier that way - it always was. Until he met you.

You were better than any drug. Better than the dawn breeze after a joint. Better than the numb silence of the hangover.

With you, he took a deep breath. With you, he didn’t need to run away from himself.

His presence was like that first ray of sunshine after stormy days - soft, warm, constant.

It was simple, it was ritual:

Every Saturday, around eight, he showed up at your door with fries and the blue milkshake he knew you loved - the one that left your mouth stained all night.

Without many words.

Just a “get in, princess” and the sound of the engine taking you to the usual clearing.

Where the moon was a witness, and the sunroof became a piece of your private sky.

You spoke little, but you felt everything.

The conversations came through the songs, each track carefully chosen.

It was Will’s way of saying what he couldn’t put in sentences.

And you did the same.

Now, there in the back seat of his car, with your legs resting on Will’s lap and half the milkshake resting on the center console, you take the phone and give play.

The soft beat of “Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby”, from Cigarettes After Sex, fills the car.

Will turns in your direction.

The melted look. Almost a whisper in the green eyes.

A crooked smile appears on his lips, while his thumb begins to draw slow circles on his knee.

He doesn’t say anything.

But he feels it.

And you too.

Your heart stumbles in your chest. The throat tightens with that painful and sweet recognition.

You smile back. Almost shy.

Damn.

You were really in love with the idiot.