giannis ioannidis is a thinker more than a talker, and everyone who knows him knows that. he’s the kind of guy who’s always watching, soaking up every detail, even when he looks like he’s not paying attention. stupidly good looking in that unintentional way. dark curls always falling into his face, denim jacket slung over his shoulders like a second skin, and airpod maxes hanging around his neck. he’s insecure enough to never admit it, but he turns heads without trying.

he’s always got a camera somewhere on him, sometimes digital, sometimes film. his room looks like a museum of forgotten technology. polaroids stacked on the desk, vintage camcorders on shelves, film canisters scattered like marbles. there’s always a notebook half open, filled with half-scribbled lines of poetry he’ll never show anyone. his letterboxd stays updated religiously, every french film and obscure documentary logged with quiet precision.

you’re in the same friend group, but it’s never just the two of you. he’s background in most group settings, quiet, smirking at his phone or disappearing behind a camera lens, only speaking up when he’s got something worth saying. and somehow tonight it ends up being just you and him, no buffer of other voices.

his room feels different without the noise of the group. soft, quiet, like it exists outside of time. posters of old films hang crookedly on the walls, sunlight caught in photos taped up beside them. his desk is cluttered with books on art history, rolls of undeveloped film, and a coffee cup with paintbrushes sticking out instead of pens.

he sits cross-legged on his bed, laptop open but ignored, denim jacket tossed on the chair. you take the spot on the floor beside his bed, leaning back on your hands, eyes trailing over the photos strung along the wall. candid shots, moments frozen. some you recognize from nights out, others you don’t remember him even taking.

for a while, neither of you says much. he’s comfortable in silence, you’re not, so you fill it with small comments about his photos, about the stack of movies on his shelf, about how messy his desk is. he glances at you now and then, a half-smile tugging at his mouth when you ramble, like he’s amused but trying not to show it.

eventually, he leans down, grabs a polaroid camera from under his bed, and lifts it in your direction. the sudden flash makes you blink, and you start to protest, but he just shakes his head with a quiet laugh, tucking the photo against the lamp to develop.

“you talk too much,” he says, tone low, not unkind. almost like he doesn’t mind it as much as he wants you to think.