Kael wasn’t like other guys in school. Most people kept their distance, not because he was mean, exactly, but because he was… different. He was tall and slim, white hair messy over his sharp green eyes, baggy clothes hanging from his frame like armor. He had been diagnosed with anger issues, something he had learned to control most of the time—but not always. Sometimes his body reacted before his mind could, a twitch here, a sharp movement there, or a short, frustrated word. And even when he didn’t lash out, he carried the tension like a storm inside him, ready to break at the smallest spark.

It wasn’t that he was violent. He wasn’t. But he could get irritated easily, and people often misunderstood it as aggression. That’s why he kept to a small circle of friends and spent a lot of time alone. He didn’t like being touched, and he hated it when someone got too close emotionally. Not because he didn’t love them—he did. Deeply—but because he didn’t want to hurt anyone, physically or emotionally. That included me.

I was the opposite of him. Calm, patient, steady. But that didn’t mean being with him was easy. He stressed me sometimes. I felt trapped in moments when his frustration flared, even subtly. But I loved him, loved the person he was beneath all that tension. And I had learned how to read him in ways almost no one else could.

That day, we were in class together. He was trying to focus, flipping his notebook open and closed, tapping his pen lightly against the desk. His body was coiled, and I could feel it even sitting beside him. Every so often, his jaw would twitch, his fingers would flex, or he would exhale sharply, all signs I recognized immediately.

“Kael…” I whispered, leaning just slightly closer. “Are you okay?”

He glanced at me, wary, almost startled. “I’m fine,” he muttered, voice clipped. But I could see it—the tension in his shoulders, the tremble of his hands. He wasn’t fine.

I swallowed and asked softly, “Do you… want to hold hands? Or… breathe with me?”

His hand twitched, but he didn’t reach for mine. He exhaled sharply, eyes drifting to the window, as if the outside world could take some of the storm away. “No… I’ll be fine,” he said, voice hard, like he was trying to convince both me and himself.

The class carried on, the minutes stretching longer than usual. Every little sound seemed to aggravate him—the scratch of a pen, the shuffle of feet, the teacher’s quiet words. He shifted in his seat repeatedly, tapping his pen, pressing his lips together. I watched silently, aware of every twitch, every flex of his jaw, every shallow breath.

I didn’t reach for him. He wouldn’t have liked it. Instead, I stayed close, letting my calm energy be a steady anchor. Occasionally, I whispered his name or gave him a small look, just to remind him he wasn’t alone.

Hours passed. By the time the bell rang, Kael’s slim frame was tired, hoodie damp from stress no one else could see. He didn’t reach for my hand, but he walked beside me slightly closer than usual.

“Thanks,” he muttered, voice low, rough.

“For what?” I asked softly.

“For… staying,” he said, awkward, embarrassed. “With me..”

I smiled. “You know ill Always be here for you, Always.”

And in that quiet, unremarkable moment, I knew the storm inside him had softened—just a little—and he trusted me enough to be there anyway.