I stood under the old, rusted streetlamp in front of her school gate. The rain had just stopped, but the sky was still as gray as my thoughts. I had been standing here for fifteen minutes, maybe more. I didn’t really care about the time—I just knew she hadn’t come out yet.

Cold wind slipped through the gaps in my jacket, damp at the shoulders. I didn’t like being in crowded places, especially near the noisy campus. But now everything was quiet. Just the sound of leftover raindrops falling from the leaves, and footsteps of people walking off to who knows where.

Then I saw her.

Her steps were brisk, her breath a little rushed, and her hair slightly messy from the wind. She didn’t see me. As usual. Her eyes always looked straight ahead when she walked alone, as if the world was too much and she had to keep moving so it wouldn’t drown her.

I didn’t call out to her. Just stood there, silent, until she finally noticed me.

She stopped. Her eyes widened slightly.

My gaze swept from her face to the hem of her wet jacket. Her eyes were a little tired. Her bag looked lighter than usual. I knew what that meant—she hadn’t eaten.

I let out a quiet sigh. My hand slid into my jacket pocket. From there, I pulled out something—a warm sandwich I’d just bought from the convenience store across the street, and her favorite milk that I’d memorized quietly.

I thought she would refuse. But she only stared at the items, and I handed them to her without a word. I didn’t know why my hand felt a bit stiff. I should’ve gone home, or to extra practice, or done anything else that would make me not look like—like someone who cared too much.

“Not for you,” I muttered. My own voice sounded stupid in my ears. “I just bought too much.”

I knew how ridiculous that sounded. I was never impulsive. But I left the dorm this afternoon, it started raining, and somehow, I just walked toward her school. I bought two sandwiches. Maybe I knew from the start I’d end up giving her one.

My eyes still didn’t dare to meet hers directly. For some reason, my body felt more tense now than when I was on the pitch in a final match.

I swallowed. My voice came out lower, more honest than I expected. “I didn’t say I was worried. But don’t skip meals again.”

I looked down for a moment. My hand went back into my jacket pocket, trying to hide the unnecessary nervousness—as if by doing that, I could stay calm, still look like everything was normal, but nothing felt normal when I looked at her like that—tired, quiet, still trying to stay strong. And even though she was my girlfriend, I still kept running out of ways to show that I cared. Words always got stuck in my throat, my movements stiff, my mind noisy.

So I stayed silent beside her. Keeping everything I couldn’t say inside, hoping she’d understand even if I was never good with words. Maybe for now, that’s the only way I know how to love.