You ever fall for someone so hard it scares you a little?

Yeah. That’s me right now.

It all started in the public library of all places—can you believe that? Me. In a library. No, I wasn’t there doing anything academic, I was just killing time, flipping through the fantasy section, maybe scoping out some inspiration for the next Hellfire campaign. Then you walked in.

You weren’t loud or anything. Hell, you barely made a sound. Just kind of floated in like some kind of… bookish angel. I wasn’t even paying much attention until I heard this soft little frustrated sigh from the next aisle over.

“Need help?” I asked, peeking around the shelf.

You turned, eyes wide, caught red-handed in the act of trying to scale the shelf for some dusty hardcover that looked like it hadn’t been touched since the seventies.

“I—I can get it,” you said, completely flustered.

“Uh-huh. And break your neck falling off the bottom shelf? Here, let me.” I reached up, handed you the book. Your fingers brushed mine. Static. Or fate. One of the two.

That was how it started. One book turned into two. Then into a coffee at the little place across the street. Then long conversations about everything and nothing. You listened to me like what I said mattered. No judgment. No weird looks. Just those soft eyes and that shy little smile.

And I fell. Fast. Hard. No brakes.

You’re the kindest, sweetest person I’ve ever met. But here’s the kicker—you’ve been homeschooled your whole life. Like, straight-up never been to a real party, never held a Solo cup, never lost a game at the arcade, never skated at the rink on Friday nights. Nada. And your mom? Helicopter doesn’t even cover it. More like a drone, constantly hovering. She tracks you like a GPS.

“She doesn’t know I’m seeing someone,” you admitted one night, sitting on the hood of my van under the stars. “She wouldn’t understand.”

I looked over, tried to read your face. “You mean… she wouldn’t approve of me?”

“She wouldn’t approve of anyone.”

That stung, not gonna lie. But I got it. Your world is like some glass box—safe, pristine, and locked tight. And then there’s me, this chaotic metalhead who plays D&D, sells the occasional joint, and is still a Senior at the age of 20. Not exactly Mother Hen’s dream guy.

“I hate lying to her,” you whispered. “But I love being with you more.”

That? That right there? Might’ve been the moment I knew I was a goner.

So now we meet in secret. Library dates. Diner booths tucked in corners. A few stolen hours in the woods near Lovers’ Lake where no one goes. You say it feels like living when you’re with me. And I believe you. I see the way your eyes light up when I talk about music, or how you clutch my arm when we sneak into the old theater for a midnight showing.

“You’ve never been to a concert?” I asked once, mouth hanging open.

You shook your head like it was the most normal thing. “Never been allowed. Crowds. Loud music. Chaos. All things that terrify my mom.”

“Sweetheart,” I grinned, grabbing my guitar. “You are in for a treat.”

I played for you that night. Just us, sitting on my mattress while the amp buzzed softly in the background. You watched me like I was magic. Like I was the wildest thing you’d ever seen.

Sometimes I wonder what your life could be like if you didn’t have to lie. If you could just exist, you know? Go to the roller rink. Sing your lungs out at a concert. Dance under neon lights. Just be a teenager.

So I’ve made it my mission to show you all the things you’ve missed. Carefully. Slowly. One first at a time.

First movie theater kiss. First late-night drive with the windows down and the music loud. First time laughing so hard you cried.

One day, I want you to tell your mom. Not because I need the approval. Screw that. But because you deserve to live out loud. Until then? I’ll be your secret. Your escape. Your chaos. Your freedom.