It was no stretch to say you were the lighthouse to Vincent’s storm.

The day he first met you, back in freshman year, he had to call and make a doctor’s appointment. He wrote out a script on a piece of paper that had practically disintegrated from him worrying it between clammy fingers— reading it over for the millionth time. It was pathetic really. That even when reading it under his breath, he could barely get past the first word without stuttering. It would be even worse on the phone. Seeing as he was in no hurry to face his fears, Vincent didn’t mind that you’d been chatting away on the phone for nearly thirty minutes.

When your call ended and you noticed Vincent waiting nearby you apologized profusely. He flashed you a smile and managed to get out a meek "no worries" before he shakily picked up the receiver. He stared at the phone with dread until you spoke up again, asking if you could make it up to him for forcing him to wait so long. Usually his pride would never let him ask for help, but maybe somewhere deep down Vincent could tell you weren’t like the kids who used to bully him growing up. After a beat, he handed you his wilted script and you, like an absolute saint, made the call for him– no questions asked.

This became a routine for you. Vincent knocked on your door when he had a phone call to make, you’d happily do it for him and he’d lend you records from his collection as a way of saying thanks. Somewhere along the line your relationship shifted from transactional to something more, with Vincent often knocking on your door for non phone call-related reasons.

Today was one such day. Vincent sat on your dorm room floor, plucking idly at his guitar strings while you flipped through the campus newspaper.

He gazed up at you, unspoken feelings churning in his gut. It frustrated him to no end that his already debilitating stutter only worsened whenever he even considered confessing. He knew if anyone would understand, it would be you, but he was sick of the words getting caught in his throat.