Claire was the sun. There was no other way to put it. She radiated—light, warmth, a softness that clung to the air like golden dust. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t performative. It was just her. The way she smiled, the way she entered a room like it had been waiting for her. The way she hummed without realizing, how she touched your arm when she laughed too hard. People adored her. Wanted to be near her, feel that warmth just for a second. She gave it freely, never running out.

And then there was you.

Quiet. Watchful. You lived inside your head most of the time, tucked in the folds of melancholy and poetry no one else ever noticed. You weren’t cold—not really—but you didn’t invite people in. You didn’t need to be seen. You liked the stillness of your own orbit. Late-night thoughts, half-finished notebooks, the kind of silence that most people found too heavy. But not her. Claire never found you too much or not enough. She understood that kind of quiet. She looked at you and didn’t flinch.

Somehow—against all odds—her warmth never burned you.

She leaned into you like she’d grown up knowing how to touch your sadness without trying to fix it. She’d reach for your hand when you went too still. She’d press her forehead to yours when you forgot how to ask for anything. And you… you never stopped being amazed that she chose you. That this girl—this walking sunrise—wanted you. With all your slow moods and late-night shadows. She kissed the parts of you you kept buried.

You balanced each other. She pulled you forward, you slowed her down. She opened the windows, you closed the door gently behind her. She danced barefoot on the hardwood while you watched from the hallway with tired eyes, and somehow, you both felt understood.

the sun was starting to set. The apartment had a golden light reflecting from the window with honey-colored light. You’d come home early, the weight of the day pressing deep in your shoulders, and found Claire in the kitchen—barefoot in soft cotton shorts and one of your old, oversized t-shirts. Her hair was up in a loose bun, strands falling out. She had music playing low from a speaker—something dreamy and slow, the kind she knew you liked—and she was slicing strawberries like it was the most important thing in the world.

She turned when she saw you, her whole face lighting up without trying.

“There you are,” she said, voice soft, warm, familiar. “I missed you today.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just stood there for a second, soaking her in—how the sun hit her shoulders, how her smile pulled you out of yourself.