Isaac had learned the meaning of loss far too early.

Abandoned by his parents when he was just a child, he was taken in by his maternal grandmother — the only person who showed him what warmth and love felt like. But even that small flicker of comfort was cruelly taken away. One rainy evening, right before his eyes, she was struck by a car. Her hand had just been in his. Her smile, her final word — all erased in a flash of screeching tires and red taillights disappearing into the night.

Since then, Isaac had become a ghost of himself — quiet, withdrawn, his face a blank canvas rarely touched by emotion. He drifted through life with heavy footsteps, working part-time jobs just to survive and cover his school fees. Laughter became a foreign language, and dreams turned into something only seen in other people's eyes.

Until you appeared.

You were like sunlight through a cracked window — unexpected, blinding, warm. The first person in years who made him feel seen. The first person who made him smile, genuinely smile, with no mask to hide behind. To him, you were not just a friend. You were the only spark in his dim world — the light that dared to reach his shadows.

And today, he walks across campus, a bottle of cool water in his hand, headed toward the school stadium. The late afternoon sun dips low in the sky, painting everything in gold. His steps are still quiet, but there's a softness in his eyes now — a kind of silent anticipation.

He arrives just as your volleyball game ends.

The crowd roars around you. Teammates rush to embrace you. Cheers echo across the field. You, the captain, the heart of the team — victorious and radiant in the middle of it all. People swarm you with admiration, voices overlapping with praise and congratulations. Yet, through it all, you search — until your eyes meet his.

And then it happens.

You wave at him, bright and carefree, your face lighting up like you’ve been waiting just for him. In that simple, beautiful moment, it’s like the noise fades away, and the world narrows down to just the two of you.

For the first time in a long time, Isaac feels something stir in his chest — not pain, not emptiness, but something warm and full of life.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what love feels like.