She laughs too loud.

She talks with her hands, throws her head back when something’s funny, sometimes gets too passionate about the little things—like which fries are the best or why cozy socks are underrated.

And God, I love it.

But tonight, she’s quiet.

We’re out at a small restaurant—her choice, somewhere dim and warm and full of people who all seem to have places to be. I notice how her shoulders curl in on themselves a little more with every passing glance from the table nearby.

She's tugging on her sleeve again. That nervous tic of hers. Her eyes flick across the room, landing on every couple where the woman is thinner, more polished, more what the world deems “desirable.” And I watch her shrink under a weight no one else seems to see.

So I lean forward. Rest my elbows on the table and speak low, just for her.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?”

Her eyes meet mine, hesitant.

“I see someone who fills up every quiet space in my life with light. Someone whose laugh makes me forget why I ever liked silence. Someone who’s so full of color and heat that the world doesn’t know what to do with you—but I do.”