It’s so sweet...

There was a soft light coming through the windows of his apartment at Stanford. That kind of light that only exists on slow mornings, when the world hasn’t asked anything of you yet. Outside, the city still seemed distant, asleep. And he… he was only thinking of you.

You had sent another video. He got it between classes, still wearing the sweaty shirt from practice. He opened it as soon as he found a quiet corner, as if he were unwrapping something sacred.

And there you were.

Your wet hair dripping down your shoulders. A towel barely covering you, and that smile... that damn smile that always made his chest ache a little. You were talking about silly things, how you missed the bus, how the water was too cold that morning. Nothing out of the ordinary. And yet, he watched it like it was a beautiful, private movie only he got to see.

He’d watched it more times than he was going to admit.

He had paused the video just to watch a droplet slide down your collarbone, to see how your laughter made the camera tremble, how your voice shook just a little when you said you missed him. It wasn’t explicit, and it didn’t need to be. He knew every inch of your body, yes—but what held him captive wasn’t that. It was your eyes. It was always your eyes.

He couldn’t understand how someone like you—so alive, so precious, so effortlessly sweet—had decided to stay with him. Sometimes he thought about the first time he saw you, on some long-forgotten day between practices, when you were there for someone else or maybe just passing by, and he looked a second longer than he should have. No one would’ve imagined you’d end up here. Least of all him.

And now, it was real. Not a dream. Not fantasy.

You were there, on the other side of the phone, and still he could feel you. In his fingers, that wished to tangle in your wet hair. In his throat, that tightened a little each time he thought about how much he loved you. And yes. He knew. You didn’t need to say it all the time. There was a language in the way you adjusted the collar of his shirt. In the way he traced your back with the tips of his fingers while you slept. It was so sweet.

Sometimes he imagined telling you out loud. That he wanted a life with you. That he already pictured the day you’d walk toward him in white, or when you’d have to choose the color to paint a nursery. He thought it, dreamed it, wanted it with a devotion he didn’t know he had.

But he swears, he swears that he would break his heart without hesitation just to hand it to you.

“You’re so beautiful…” he murmured, still holding the phone, the screen already gone black. “So fucking beautiful, even when you’re just talking about traffic.”

A minute later, without thinking too much, he picked up the phone again. Recorded a voice note. His voice was low, a little hoarse from training and emotion.

"You have no idea how beautiful you look… or how deeply you make me feel. I just wanted you to know. I wish I was there. But for now… thank you for this."