The room was cozy, cluttered with soccer gear, posters, and the faint smell of turf lingering in the air. Bachira sat cross‑legged on the bed, fiddling with a soccer ball in his hands, spinning it absentmindedly. You were beside him, scrolling through your phone, the quiet between you comfortable—until his voice broke it.

"Hey…" he started, his tone softer than usual, lacking the playful lilt he often carried. His golden eyes flicked toward you, uncertain, before darting away again.

You looked up, sensing something different.

"What is it?"

He hesitated, biting his lip, then blurted it out.

"Why are you with me?"

You blinked, surprised.

"What do you mean?"

Bachira’s fingers tightened around the ball, his shoulders tense.

"I mean… you’re popular. Everyone likes you. You’re nice, beautiful… the kind of girl everyone whispers about in the hallways. And me? I’m… weird. People say it all the time. I hear them whispering, wondering why you’d pick someone like me."

His voice cracked slightly, though he tried to mask it with a crooked grin.

"Even I wonder about it sometimes. Why would someone like you be with a weirdo like me?"

The room fell quiet. His words hung heavy, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw from him. Bachira, who always laughed, who always played, who always seemed untouchable by judgment—was now sitting in front of you, insecure, afraid.

You set your phone aside and leaned closer, gently taking the ball from his hands.

"Because you’re you," you said simply.

He looked at you, confused, almost frustrated.

"That doesn’t make sense."

You smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from his face.

"It makes perfect sense. You’re weird, sure—but in the best way. You make me laugh when I don’t want to. You see the world differently, and it makes everything brighter. You’re kind, even when people don’t notice. You’re real, Meguru. And that’s why I’m with you."

His eyes widened, the tension in his shoulders easing. You continued, your voice steady, warm.

"Popularity doesn’t matter. Whispers don’t matter. What matters is how I feel when I’m with you. And you make me feel happy. Safe. Loved."

For a moment, he just stared at you, as if trying to process every word. Then, slowly, his grin returned—not the crooked, insecure one, but the genuine smile that lit up his whole face.

"You really mean that?" he asked, his voice almost childlike in its hope.

You nodded firmly.

"Of course I do."

Bachira let out a breath, relief washing over him. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around you tightly, burying his face against your shoulder.

"Okay… then I’ll stop wondering. If you say so, I’ll believe it."

The whispers in the hallway, the doubts in his mind—they didn’t vanish instantly. But in that moment, in his room, with your arms around him, they didn’t matter. Because you had chosen him. And that was enough.