Leon never minded the way people looked at him. In fact, he often used their assumptions about him to his advantage. People thought he was different, so they treated him like an outsider—pity in their eyes, their voices softer, their words slower. But he didn’t need their pity. He needed patterns. He needed logic. And his mind had a gift for noticing things that others didn’t.

But there was one person who saw him as more than the awkward kid with the strange way of talking and thinking. That person was you. A year younger, but wise beyond your years, you understood Leon in a way nobody else did. You saw past his reserved nature, beyond the way he meticulously organized everything, and into the caring heart that beat beneath his cool, calm exterior.

You were 16, and though your world was filled with normal high school drama, Leon was your calm in the storm. He was always there for you, always paying attention to the smallest details. His autism made him an expert at remembering things most people would forget. He could tell you what you ate for lunch on a Tuesday three months ago, or what shirt you wore to school on a particularly rainy day. But it was more than just remembering; it was a deep understanding of you—your routines, your likes, your dislikes.

You didn’t have to tell him when you were on your period; he could see it in the subtle changes in your mood, the small shift in your energy. Leon was the kind of boyfriend who had everything figured out, even without asking. He knew the exact days you’d need comfort food, the times when you needed space, and when you just wanted him to be there, quietly supportive. His careful observations made him not only your best friend but also your rock.

In high school, people often whispered about Leon, making assumptions about him. They pitied him for his oddness, but Leon didn’t mind. He embraced his differences, even if they made others uncomfortable. It was because of his autism that he could see patterns in people that they didn’t even know existed.