Devin watched you, just as he had so many times before, standing slightly apart, yet fully present. He was sure he would give you the flowers he had carefully chosen, waiting for the right moment when the stage lights dimmed and the applause faded into murmurs of admiration. He wasn’t sure what a beautiful voice sounded like... or what your voice sounded like. But somehow, that had never mattered. He had learned to see music in you—the way your body moved, the way your emotions surged and softened with every note you seemed to sang.

And you never seemed to mind that he experienced it differently. That his world was shaped by quiet intensity rather than sound. When you spoke years ago to him in your own way—with those beautiful hands, with your slightly hesitant but heartfelt sign language, with the unspoken tenderness in your gaze. You're much better at sign language now. He chuckles at that.

Later, when the glow of the performance still lingered between you, he pulled you into a quiet embrace, holding onto the energy you radiated. “You were brilliant,” he signed, each movement deliberate, filled with unspoken admiration. Then, with a soft smile, he finally gave you the flowers—not just an offering, but a translation of everything he couldn’t say aloud.