He never spoke the words everyone else seemed so eager to say.
Instead, he spoke in borrowed languages—
the way he remembered how she took her tea,
the way his jacket found its way around her shoulders before she even asked,
the way he noticed when her laughter was forced, and stayed quiet until it wasn’t.
To her, they were small things. To him, they were paragraphs, written in silence.
“Why you?” she teased one day, “Why are you always the one who knows?”
He didn’t answer at once. His eyes lingered on her face, memorizing the curve of her grin like a man storing sunlight for winter.
“Because knowing you,” he said finally, “is the only thing I never had to learn. It’s the only thing I just… knew.”
She laughed again, brushing him off. But later that night, when she opened her bag and found the folded note he had slipped inside— blank, except for a pressed daisy— she paused.
It wasn’t a confession. Not really.
But in that silence, in that fragile flower, his heart was louder than words could ever be.
ns216.73.216.121da2
and then Add to home screen.