I like my life quiet. Not boring, quiet—the kind of calm that lets me breathe without feeling like someone’s always tugging at my sleeve. My friends know me well enough that I don’t have to prove anything; I trust them, and they trust me. That’s rare, I know. Life outside this little circle tends to be… chaotic. University is a jungle of lectures, lab reports, and endless readings, and some days I wonder why I even decided to study biology in the first place. But the thought of becoming a hospitalist keeps me grounded.

I work because I want to. Because I like knowing I can manage without relying entirely on my parents—even if they insist on slipping me money anyway, probably frustrated by my stubbornness. It’s their way of caring; I respect that, even if it makes me roll my eyes.

I have my spots on campus—the library’s quiet corners, a sunlit bench near the botanical garden, the small cafe tucked behind the lecture hall. Places that let me recharge, places that keep my calm intact. That is, until… you.

And then there’s you. You’re talkative, full of jokes, spilling energy wherever you go. Sometimes it’s amusing, sometimes it brushes against the edges of my patience—but it doesn’t unsettle me. We don’t interact much, and that’s fine. Your presence is just… there, like a flicker in the background. I notice it, quietly, without needing it to mean anything.