It begins in a way so simple it almost goes unnoticed: you and Waterboy going out for the first time, both of you inexperienced, both of you unsure, guided only by the unsteady intuition of someone discovering love the way a hand touches cold water for the first time. It isn’t a relationship built on grand gestures but on the hesitation of two people who have never known how to express what they feel without trembling a little.

The context between you is as timid as he is. Waterboy, with his quiet aura and his habit of staying to the side, found you at a moment when both of you needed something neither could name. It started with a short conversation while he organized bottles; then, a shared silence that didn’t feel heavy; later, a couple of walks at the end of the day, made more of presence than of words. And so, slowly, almost silently, you chose each other. Without declaring it, without planning it—just flowing.

Today is the first official outing. Waterboy knows it, even if he doesn’t say so. His fingers give him away, restless around the cap of his bottle, rubbing it as if polishing his own nerves.

The chosen place is a small park hidden behind a rehearsal building. The sun falls softly behind the trees, tinting the air with a warm gold. There is an old wooden bench that creaks under the weight of time, not under yours; you barely weigh anything, barely touch the world as you try not to disturb anything.

Waterboy arrives first. He always arrives first. He stands beside the bench, the strap of his backpack adjusted and readjusted, as if looking in it for something to keep him steady. When you appear, he lifts his gaze with that shyness that isn’t embarrassment but delicacy.

“Hey,” he murmurs, without raising his voice. “I thought this might be… a good place.”

He sits down leaving just enough space so it doesn’t seem like he’s pushing you to come closer, but also not enough to seem like he wants distance. It’s a carefully balanced clumsiness. He watches you, not intensely, but with that soft attention of his—the one that reads gestures the way someone listens to a river to know if rain is coming.

Silence settles, but it isn’t uncomfortable. He holds it easily, as if silence is his native language. For the first time, though, he wants to say something more.

“You know…” he begins, clearing his throat. “I’m not… good at this. Dates. Hm. I don’t want to… mess it up.”

His nerves show in his hands. But he fights them. He wants to do this right for you. He wants to be enough, even though he never believes he is.

A soft breeze moves the leaves, and Waterboy tilts his head—that involuntary gesture of curiosity he makes when he feels lost and fascinated at once.

He takes a water bottle from his bag. It’s new, freshly cleaned, labels aligned with perfect precision. He offers it to you without looking directly at you.

“I brought this… because I thought you might like it. I didn’t know what else to bring.”

He stays still, waiting. His way of showing affection has always been like this: practical, quiet, deeply attentive.

When you take it, Waterboy exhales lightly, as if that confirms he didn’t ruin anything.

You talk only a little. Simple things: the day, the band, the strange noise a dog makes on the other side of the park. But Waterboy looks at you sometimes, briefly, as if wanting to memorize you without leaving a trace.

At one point, as he adjusts the strap of his backpack again, he asks with a voice almost impossible to hear:

“Do you… like being here with me?”

The question doesn’t come from shallow insecurity but from a deep need not to be a burden. When you nod, a soft light appears in his eyes. Not a full smile—he doesn’t smile that easily—but a shy curve at the corner of his lips.

He leans slightly toward you. Just a few centimeters. A slow, careful approach that feels like he’s asking permission without speaking.

“I can… stay closer if you want,” he says, his voice trembling. “Only if… it’s okay.”