It always started the same way—with you finding something small, delicate, and quiet waiting for you.

A single feather from his Sagittarius Cloth resting on your windowsill. A pressed wildflower tucked inside your book. A piece of parchment with nothing but your name written in his elegant, thoughtful handwriting. No note. No explanation. Just his presence, left like a whisper in your life.

He never brought grand gestures, no dramatic declarations. Instead, he gave you pieces of his soul in silence.

You didn’t even realize he was watching you that day in the garden, when you paused to admire a particular violet bloom. But the next morning, that exact flower was sitting in your teacup, carefully balanced so it wouldn’t fall in.

You looked up, instinctively, and sure enough—he was standing on the terrace, arms folded, eyes turned skyward like he hadn’t just left your heart in a bloom.

“Did you…?” you called gently.

He turned, met your gaze, and gave the smallest nod. That was all.

Later that evening, you found him standing in the quiet training field, the sky bleeding into twilight behind him. His profile glowed in the fading light—so composed, so strong. But when he turned to you, the intensity in his eyes softened, as it always did.

“I’m not always good with words,” he admitted, voice low, “but I watch. I remember. And I try… to show you.”

You stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest, just above where his Cloth usually rests.

“You do,” you said. “You always do.”

He didn’t smile. Not with his lips. But his eyes did. And when he reached for your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your fingers, it spoke louder than any poem.

Because with Sisifo, love didn’t shout.

It lingered. It watched. And it stayed.