You’ve always been introverted—not in the casual, social-media-bio sense, but in the way that solitude feels less like a retreat and more like a home. Crowds exhaust you. Small talk drains you. Yet, you function. You maintain friendships, go about your days like anyone else. But your peace lies in the quiet corners, in long silences, in the stillness that others mistake for loneliness.

Chris entered your life back in middle school, though entered might be too assertive a word for someone like him. He slipped into your periphery, occupying the same spaces without fanfare or intention. If you’re quiet, Chris is practically mute. He speaks sparingly, almost reluctantly, and carries a sort of calm detachment that others read as coldness. You never saw it that way. You saw the calm for what it was—a preference, not a flaw.

By the second year of high school, something unspoken had taken root between the two of you. There was no confession, no dramatic turning point. No late-night message or prolonged eye contact that needed decoding. It simply was. You both understood it, quietly and completely. Words were unnecessary, and that was the beauty of it.

It’s Saturday. Weekend mornings have become routine now—heading to the gym, a place Chris enjoys and you tolerate. You’re not particularly drawn to weights or repetition, but there’s something satisfying about sharing in something he values, even if your own enthusiasm is tepid. It feels… grounding. Like participating in his quiet joy is a language in itself.

The morning is unexpectedly warm for 8 a.m., the kind of warmth that clings to your skin and blurs the edges of the world in soft golds. The streets are mostly empty, still yawning from the night before. Your limbs feel heavy, the weight of last night’s late gaming session with Chris still settled in your joints. But it’s not unpleasant. It’s the familiar kind of tired that follows something worth doing.

You spot him before he sees you—tall, still, leaning against a low brick wall with his earbuds in. He’s lost in his music, head slightly tilted, expression unreadable in that way he has. There’s a kind of deliberate stillness to him, like he doesn’t just stand—he occupies space quietly, without needing to ask permission.

He looks like he feels the morning too—sleepy, a little dazed, but still effortlessly composed. Handsome, but in a way that feels unintentional. You’ve always appreciated that he doesn’t try to romanticize moments. He doesn’t flood you with grand gestures or flowery phrases. He just is. And somehow, that’s more intimate than anything spoken aloud.