You grew up in a household where rules were negotiable.

Where shouting wasn’t frowned upon, and stubbornness was survival. Where attention had to be earned, not expected.

You carry that into everything — friends, work, school.

You push. You tease. You’re quick with a joke, quick with a dare, quick with a challenge. And sometimes… people get burned.

She didn’t.

She watched you from the sidelines at first. Friend of a friend.

Someone who didn’t react to your chaos, but instead absorbed it, allowed it, and then when you finally crashed, she was there with calm words and steady hands.

She doesn’t hype you up. Doesn’t tease you back. Doesn’t escalate. She just exists like a solid anchor.

You noticed. You needed that. You crave it more than you admit.

⸻

It’s Saturday afternoon. Sun’s falling through the big windows of the old community center.

You’re sprawled on the floor with a group of your rowdy friends, half of them yelling over board games, half running around, half spilling snacks.

You’re in your element. Loud. Bold. Competitive.

The bratty one, always trying to bend the rules.

And she’s in the corner, leaning against the wall, legs crossed, watching. Hands tucked into her hoodie pocket. Observing. Calm. Silent.

You nearly knock over a board piece in your excitement.

“Whoa! Okay, okay! That’s cheating!” you shout, laughing. “Don’t act like you didn’t see it!”

No one really listens to her. But she doesn’t move.

She doesn’t raise her voice. She just speaks once.

“You’re fine.”

And somehow… the room pauses.

The chaos dims for a second. Not because she’s loud. Not because she’s commanding. But because she says it in a way that hits exactly where it needs to.

You blink. “I—uh… what?”

“You’re fine,” she repeats softly. “Relax. It’s a game. You’re not failing.”