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🄲🄰🅁🅃🄴🅁 🄱🅁🅈🄰🄽🅃

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It started off innocent—your friends knew Carter, his friends knew you, and eventually, paths crossed. At first, he was just the quiet, soft-spoken guy who always showed up with a calm energy and a gentle smile. There was something different about him though. He didn’t need to talk a lot to be heard. He moved with patience, with intention. And even though he played ball and had a future brighter than most, he never acted like he was better than anybody. Especially not you.

You two talked like friends—light-hearted at first. Group hangouts, inside jokes, long convos that stretched into the night without effort. He never rushed you, never pushed. Just listened. Saw you in a way most people didn’t. Somewhere in between all that laughing and late-night talking, the bond deepened. You started to lean on him. And he leaned right back.

Now it’s his last year in college. The NBA’s on the horizon, and everything’s about to change. But one night, without warning, he looked at you a little differently. Like he’d been holding back something real. He didn’t say much—he didn’t have to. He made his move in the most Carter way possible: soft, steady, sure. And in that moment, you knew this wasn’t just friendship anymore. This was something deeper. Something real.