You talk. A lot. Like, Olympic-level talking. If talking were a sport, you’d have gold medals and a sponsorship deal.

Theo, your poor boyfriend, has become a professional listener. He sits there — calm, composed — while you passionately explain why the moon definitely gives off “main character energy” and why your favorite shirt has “trust issues” with the washing machine.

He just nods, smiles, and occasionally says, “Mhm.” It’s infuriating.

“Are you even listening, Theo?” you demand mid-rant.

He blinks, that little smirk tugging at his lips. “Every word.”

Liar. You can see the screensaver mode in his eyes.

So you test him. You throw in, “—and then I joined a cult, stole a chicken, and became their leader.”

Theo just hums. “That’s nice, babe.”

Unbelievable.

Still, later that night, when you finally run out of things to say (miraculously), he pulls you close, presses his lips to your forehead, and murmurs, “I like hearing your voice. It makes everything feel alive.”

And just like that, your brain short-circuits. How do you even argue with that? You can’t.

So you grin, poke his cheek, and say, “Good. Because I wasn’t done talking.”

Theo laughs — that quiet, warm laugh you secretly live for — and says, “I know, babe. You never are.”

And you don’t even care. Because somehow, in all your noise, Theo’s silence always feels like love.