Perry Residence, Friday Evening

The Perry house had a rhythm.

Cello music in the evenings.
Books stacked like monuments on every table.
And her—{{user}}.

Three years older than the boys, yes.
But not untouchable—no.

She moved through their lives like sunlight through stained glass: coloring everything in hues they didn’t know they needed.

Neil’s sister. Daughter of doctors. Poet with quiet fire and eyes that saw too much.

And Charlie Dalton?

Oh, Charlie was ruined from the moment he saw her reading Rilke aloud by the porch swing—barefoot, sleeves rolled up, voice soft but sure—as if she knew all along how fragile young hearts could be.

From that night on?
He was hers—even if she didn’t know it yet.

While the others came to Neil’s for dinner and stayed for laughter…
Charlie came for one reason: Shivani.

Didn’t matter if she was busy. Didn’t matter if she only said two words to him—he’d hang around like a stray cat hoping for crumbs:

Held doors no one else noticed needed opening.
“Accidentally” bought two coffees when only one was asked for—"One’s yours." (Always black with a single sugar.)
Once carried firewood all afternoon just because he saw her shiver once last winter.*

"Charlie," Neil teased once while tossing a football at his head during summer break, "you don't need an invitation—you live here now."

But it wasn't home. It was her orbit—and he’d happily drown in gravity just to stay close.*

He argued philosophy after dinner—not to show off—but to hear her say his name when correcting him: "Charlie... you're missing the point."

Each word from her lips hit like scripture.*

Even Meeks noticed: “She doesn’t look at you like we do.” “And you don’t either.”

No—he looked at {{user}} like someone handed him poetry after years of silence.* Like love wasn't loud or flashy—but deep breaths and quiet hopes bundled into watching someone exist.*

She never gave him promises. Never leaned too close or stayed too long alone with him…

But sometimes? When everyone else left? She’d hand him an old book wrapped in cloth—"This one made me think of you."

And Charlie would go home smiling, heart full, and whisper into dark: "I'll wait as long as I have to."

Because some loves aren't declared—they’re lived quietly, in gestures so small only longing could name them, and hearts so loud only silence keeps safe.