Norman Olresr

The stars are overshadowed by the streetlights outside, the blinds closed so that only a hint of silver light can pour inside. The blankets are warm, newly washed, the scent of fabric softener filling the room. Snacks and drinks cover the floor beside the both of you as the movie plays on.

Everything's tame. The same, like it always is.

It's quite the opposite, actually.

Each time your shoulders touch, someone always flinches. Each time one reaches for a snack, your hands always collide. You arranged this night to get things back to normal. Not this awkward mess!

How did it get here?

He had the life of almost a stray cat. Never sticking to people for too long, always put off to the side, always turning away, and always overlooked. The world was a blur to him, like walking through fog and never knowing what lies ahead. His mother and father were always at work; the only form of affection he knew were half-smiles over rushed dinners and pats on the head in passing. So, he stopped trying to reach out. He was no fool to beg for a hand that may never come.

But it did.

Yours did.

It was the second grade when he first saw you. Noticed you, really. You were standing at the edge of the blacktop, hair messily tied, your jacket two sizes too big. You had been trying to tie a skipping rope into a noose to hang from the monkey bars—not out of morbidity, but out of curiosity. He remembers because he asked what you were doing and you told him, quite plainly, "I'm trying to make a swing for ants." He blinked, and for the first time in what felt like forever, smiled.

From that moment on, you were a constant. If he was the moon, then you were a star that people could never name but always noticed. On the outside world, you were nothing but this mischievous troublemaker that no one could contain. You lived loud—jumping over fences, starting pillow fights during nap time, laughing with your whole chest. Because unlike him, you never stopped trying. But you failed just as much as he did. The world turned against you just as fast.

So instead of seeking comfort, you became it. You found it easier to hold others than to be held yourself. And maybe that’s why you reached out to him. He didn't ask questions. You didn’t offer answers. And somehow, that was more comforting than anything.

Despite the odds, opposites attract.

Your carefree smiles. Your impulsive hugs. Your bright laughter. He kept it all in a small box in his mind, carefully tucked away for rainy days. When the world grew gray, he’d open that box and remember how you once ran through the park barefoot and declared war on pigeons for stealing your fries.

You were always trying to teach him how to live. And he was always quietly learning.

And to you, he was no different. He was the first to notice when you went quiet. The first to sit beside you during those lunch breaks when no one else did. The first to look you in the eye and say, without saying anything at all, "I see you."

You grew up with each other.Climbing trees with scraped knees. Buying popsicles with lint-covered coins. Sneaking out into the playground when the stars came out just to talk about how the moon probably felt lonely too. It was everything. To both of you. Maybe that’s how he fell in love.

It wasn’t some thunderstorm or earthquake.It was a soft, quiet thing.A realization that came slowly, like the tide, brushing up again and again until it seeped into every part of him.

Just the thought of you makes his heart flutter.

But then, as elementary school passed, then middle school, high school, and now university... something changed. You became popular. Not just because you were good-looking in that way people stare a second too long for—but because of how alive you were. His light. Now people were noticing you. And it terrified him.

You still stuck by his side, and if you hadn’t, he’s sure he would’ve lost his mind already. He always watched from afar when another boy confessed to you. Praying to his lucky stars you’d say no.

You always said no.

Until this time.

The most popular boy in the school—handsome, smart, everything a girl could ever want—confessed. Nervous, sincere. And well... he was right to be.

It wasn’t an immediate, "No, I’m sorry."It was, "Let me think about it."

He almost passed out, hiding behind a vending machine, heart in his throat.

So he avoided you.He didn’t know what to do with himself.

Now, you’re both in your dorm. His eyes keep landing on you, wrapped in the sheets of your blanket, chewing on snacks like nothing's wrong. Like everything isn’t suddenly different.

Jealousy creeps in. He doesn’t usually feel such things. He’s always been composed like a cat—silent, distant—but never when it comes to you. He can’t help himself anymore. The movie is background noise at this point.

He leans onto your shoulder, despite being a whole head taller.

“Do you like him?”

His voice is soft, almost drowned out by the sound of the screen.

You know who he means. You always do.

He leans in closer, as if the closeness will affect your answer. And maybe it will. Maybe it already has.

He’s never been brave enough to confess.Not like the others.Not like the boys who hand you roses and folded letters.

But right now, he doesn’t want bravery.

He just wants you to stay.