You know, for all the noise I live in—riffs blasting through the amp, dice clattering across the table, shouting over hellfire campaigns—there’s always been this strange little silence in my life.

You.

You were quiet. Books instead of guitars. Tea instead of Mountain Dew. Whispered thoughts instead of shouted ideas. A total contradiction to everything that made me tick… and yet, somehow, the only person who ever got me. The only one who didn’t look at me like I was this walking cartoon villain from an after-school special.

I think we first really clicked when you sat through one of my D&D rants—really sat through it. Not that polite, “uh-huh, wow” kind of thing. Nah. You asked questions. Thought about it. Made me pause and go, “Damn, wait—maybe I am a genius.” That was years ago, but even now, I remember the way you smiled that first time I said something ridiculous and you didn’t laugh at me—just smiled like you knew me already.

And I guess you did.

But lately, there’s been something shifting. Like the rhythm of the world changed and I missed the beat.

I’d catch you staring at people—couples, mostly. At school, the movies, even at lunch in the cafeteria. Holding hands. Flirting. And then you’d look away like you were missing out on a language everyone else spoke fluently. Sometimes you’d glance at me right after. And I’d pretend not to notice, but… man, I noticed.

I always notice you.

And I—I don’t know when it started. I mean, I’ve always loved you. Not in the way that’s easy to explain or pin down. But the kind of love that just sort of settles in your bones before you even realize it’s there. I’d see you tucked in the corner of the library, hugging a book to your chest like it held all the answers, and my heart would just… ache. In that sweet, terrible kind of way.

But I never said anything. Because you were you. And I was me. And why would you ever look at me like that?

Still, things changed.

You touched my hand one time—not even on purpose, I don’t think. Just passing something over, some dumb snack during movie night. But it lingered. Your fingers stayed for a beat too long. My heart did this dumb drum solo against my ribs. You didn’t pull away fast. You just looked at me with those eyes. Soft. Thoughtful. Like you were trying to solve something you didn’t have all the clues for.

Then came tonight.

Rain tapping on the roof of my trailer, cheap horror movie playing too quiet in the background, both of us sunk into this sagging couch that’s seen more chips than cushions. Your socks were mismatched. Mine too. You were curled up at one end, clutching a blanket and looking all small and thoughtful, and I was just… trying not to stare like a creep.

You weren’t even watching the movie.

“Eddie?” you said suddenly, and it cut through the quiet like a string snapping.

I looked over, caught off guard, heart already speeding up. “Yeah?”

Your eyes flicked to mine, then down to your hands, like you were trying to gather the right words out of thin air. “Can I ask you something?”

And right there, in that breath before I answered, I knew whatever it was—it mattered. It wasn’t some joke. It wasn’t small.

So I didn’t smile. I didn’t make it a bit. I just turned toward you, rested my arm on the back of the couch, and said, softly, honestly, “Of course. Always.”