Kevin, my Spanish cousin, carried a gentle charm. His soft curls were a gift from his mother, and his honey-colored eyes held a quiet warmth. He was four years older than me, and during his visits to France, he always looked a little lost among our fast-paced language and swirling accents.

He didn’t speak French, and I—fluent in English—became his translator. Luckily, he spoke English too, so our conversations grew longer, easier, and somehow... ours.

He often saw me with a bouquet of flowers, a habit I never really explained. One afternoon, curiosity tugged at me, and I asked him:

— “How do you say ‘your eyes are beautiful’ in Spanish?”

He laughed. I didn’t understand why, but I smiled, waiting.

Then he leaned in slightly and replied with a soft, steady voice:

“Tus ojos son hermosos, chica de las flores.” (Your eyes are beautiful, flower girl.)

I froze, then blushed. There was no need for further translation. In that moment, I understood everything.