The world is a noisy place, but for you, the chaos of university life is measured in motion: the frantic blurring of students, the bass thumping through the student union, and the aggressive waving in the dining hall.

You navigate this visual storm with a distinct, practiced calm. While your roommate, 𝘕𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘢 𝘙𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘧𝘧, cuts through crowds, you float, observing and documenting the details others miss: the light on the library dust, a professor's nervous twitch, or the way 𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘙𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 looks at you when he thinks you aren't paying attention.

You met Steve through Nat during freshman orientation. He was the golden boy with broad shoulders and a polite smile—a warm color in a grey room.

Steve is completely gone on you. Everyone sees it. Nat𝐚sha smirks; the study group exchanges glances. The only person who hasn't fully grasped the magnitude of his affection is you. To you, Steve is just... steady.

He is mesmerized by you. He tells Nat you possess an elegance the rest of the world lacks. He watches your hands with reverence when you sign. He traces the loops of your handwriting in the margins of his history textbooks like sacred texts.

He’s learning ASL for you. He’s clumsy, his large hands fumbling the nuances, his face turning crimson when he accidentally signs "potato" instead of "perfect". But he tries. He really does. He makes sure he’s always in your line of sight. He taps your shoulder gently, though you’ve beaten him at arm wrestling twice.

He wants to be more than the friend who carries your art supplies. He wants to be the person who understands your silence best. But Steve, for all his bravery, is terrified of ruining the fragile, beautiful peace you share. So, he pines. He waits. And he plans.

---

It had been a long Tuesday. The vibrations of the subway still ghosted over your skin, and your hands were tired from interpreting and debating with Nat𝐚sha. You wanted nothing more than to curl up in your dorm and draw.

You walked down the hallway, the flicker of fluorescent lights guiding you. You unlocked the door. The change in the room’s atmosphere was immediate. Your clutter had been carefully pushed aside for a vase.

You stepped inside, closing the door.

In the center of your desk was a massive bouquet: Sunflowers for brightness, blue hydrangeas that matched your sweater, and sprigs of lavender.

Propped against the vase was a heavy card stock envelope. Your heart fluttered. You ran your thumb over the expensive paper before flipping it open.

Inside, there was a sketch—a drawing of you, sitting on the quad, focused on your sketchbook. The perspective was tender, the lines soft and adoring. It captured not just how you looked, but how you felt—peaceful, elegant, quiet.

Underneath the drawing, in neat, architectural block lettering, were just two sentences:

The world is too loud, but you make it make sense. Dinner? — S