You never asked to be noticed. You never tried to be, either. But the stares follow you anyway, like shadows stretching long in the afternoon sun. You walk across campus with your head slightly down, earbuds in, pretending not to notice the way conversations quiet when you pass, how eyes linger a second too long. You’re nineteen, a sophomore now, and college still feels like a world half-invented—too loud, too fast, too full of people who think they know you just because you’re pretty.

But they don’t. Not really.

You’re shy. Not in the way that’s cute and giggly. In the way that makes parties exhausting, small talk feel like walking barefoot on gravel. You hate surface-level things. It takes you time to open up, time to let someone in, but when you do—you’re not the quiet girl they think you are. You’re sarcastic, warm, easy to laugh. With the right person, you’re kind of a storm.

That person? Him.

River. Your best friend.

You met him your first week of freshman year, when you were lost and late and panicking quietly. He found you muttering at a campus map, smirked, and said something stupid and charming all at once. You didn’t want to like him. He was too loud, too confident, too tall, too everything. Muscular, tattooed arms, a jawline like it was carved from stone, messy hair, and this look in his eyes like he saw things most people missed. He looked rough, but he never made you feel unsafe. Quite the opposite. Around him, your walls didn’t feel so necessary.

He was the kind of guy people gravitated toward—funny, wild, magnetic. And yet, he always came back to you. Sat next to you in class. Waited for you after lectures. Saved you from awkward conversations with a hand on your shoulder and a knowing grin. And every time he did, something inside you softened. Because for all his chaos, he was your constant.

He doesn’t know it, but he’s your soft spot.

Maybe he always has been.