I Like You So Much, You'll Know It
ăđă summary: you used to think love had to be loudâfull of sparks and spectacle. but now, in the quiet of your old school, you realize love was softer than that. love was junhui, waiting in the silence.
ăđď¸ă pairing: patient!junhui x oblivious!reader.
ăđżă genre: slice-of-life; slow-burn romance; coming-of-age.
ăđ§şă tags: high school reunion; unspoken love; memories; quiet devotion.
ăđŚă w/c: 5.3k+
đŹ â authorâs noteďźthis is inspired by the 2017 c-drama "a love so beautiful."
âeveryone who watches the drama imagines themselves as jiang chen, when in reality, weâre all like wu bosong.â
dedicated to those who love quietlyâfor the ones who wait, give without asking, and still hold on to hope.
releasing this from the drafts (2021).
i like you so much, you'll know it (minghao's version)
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ŕ¨:ŕ§âââââââââ ¡ ¡ âââââââââŕ¨:ŕ§
ŕ¨:ŕ§âââââââââ ¡ ¡ âââââââââŕ¨:ŕ§
the old high school felt almost like a place youâd dreamed.
not because it had changed, but because you had.
the hallways were narrower, the doors lower, the colors faded slightly like old pages in the sun. the trees in the courtyard stood perfectly still, as though they had always been waiting.
somewhere near the gym, laughter spilled out from old friends catching up, voices full of stories stitched together with time.
but you werenât drawn to the noise.
you were looking for someone.
not xu minghaoâthough there had been a time you believed your heart belonged to him.
minghao had always been easy to notice. not because he asked to be seen, but because he moved like someone who already belonged to the future.
he was calm, composed, bright in that quiet way stars are brightâyou only notice them when you stop and look up.
he didnât try to impress anyone. and so, of course, he did.
he was top of the class, played with grace on the court, served on the student council with a stillness that spoke louder than speeches.
you watched him the way youâd watch a reflection in waterâcarefully, afraid to disrupt it.
and maybe you thought if you looked long enough, he might look back.
the one who didâyou barely noticed at first.
because now, you were looking for wen junhui.
exactly where heâd always been.
under the tall tree near the court, where the sun filtered down in ribbons.
he sat as though he belonged to the light. still, but present.
he didnât turn when you approached. somehow, you knew he didnât need to.
âyouâre still early,â you said, gentlyâyour voice moving through the hush like the wind moves through curtains: soft, but not unseen.
it felt like something small and familiar blooming in your chest.
âyouâre still late,â he said, and the words held warmth. no edge, just memory.
you sat beside him. closer than before.
before, you might have left a space. but the years had softened the shape of that space, and now, it didnât seem necessary.
the quiet between you wasnât empty. it was full of things not yet spoken.
you watched the light move across the pavement, slow and golden.
âyou waited,â you saidânot because you wondered, but because you knew.
he didnât answer right away. when he did, it was with the same steady gentleness that had always marked him.
âi didnât know how not to.â
you couldn't help but smile, but it was a bittersweet smile, knowing youâd spent so long looking in the wrong direction.
chasing something beautiful, yesâbut not what you needed.
minghao had been the idea of love.
junhui had been its practice.
âi used to think love had to be loud,â you said. âall-consuming. obvious. like a comet across the sky.â
âiâm not very loud,â he said, almost like he was apologizing for it.
âno,â you said. âbut you were steady. you stayed. even when I didnât see it.â
he didnât flinch. didnât protest. just let it be true.
âi liked you so much,â he said quietly, âi thought⌠maybe one day, youâd feel it.â
you turned to look at himânot just glance, but really see.
he didnât turn right away, but you reached out anyway, and took his hand.
âi do,â you said. âi know now.â
he looked at your hand in his like it was something he didnât expect to hold. and then he looked at you, and in that gaze there was something deeper than surprise. there was grace.
and somehow, that was enough.
âiâm sorry it took me this long,â you whispered.
âyouâre here now,â he said. âthatâs what matters.â
above you, the sky was turning soft and lavender, and the world felt as though it had exhaled. the kind of quiet that holds its breath not in fear, but in wonder.
you rested your head on his shoulder. he leaned into you without hesitation.
and just like that, the past didnât feel wasted.
it felt like a long, winding path that had always led hereâto this bench. to this evening. to the stillness wrapped around you like light through leaves. to the warmth of a hand that had always been waiting. and to the truth you said, finally and simply:
âjunhui⌠i like you so much.â
and now, at last, he knew it.
ŕ¨:ŕ§âââââââââ ¡ ¡ âââââââââŕ¨:ŕ§
it didnât happen all at once.
there was no thunderclap, no sudden blaze of knowing.
no lightning bolt of revelation, the kind that rewrites your story in a single instant. the world didnât stop turning to bear witness.
like a seed breaking open beneath the soil.
like a starâs light, already shining long before you ever thought to look up.
you didnât notice it at first. not because it wasnât thereâbut because you werenât ready to see it.
it began at the edge of things.
a soft ache, not quite pain.
not a burning, but a kind of warmth that unfolded in careful increments, like sunlight gathering on a windowsill.
unmistakableâonce you turned your face toward it.
there were no grand declarations.
no cinematic turning point.
just the quiet accumulation of small, steady moments: the way he waited, the way he listened, the way he stayed.
it wasnât loud. it wasnât obvious.
and maybe thatâs why it took you so long to notice.
because love didnât come to you like a stormâit arrived like snow. soft. certain. each flake a whisper of something larger. and by the time you looked down, your hands were already full of it.
if you tried to trace it backâfollow the thread through the laughter and the silence, through the missed chances and half-held breathâyouâd always find yourself in the same place.
ŕ¨:ŕ§âââââââââ ¡ ¡ âââââââââŕ¨:ŕ§
you had said it in passing.
not as a demand, or a pleaâjust a thought you let drift into the air, soft around the edges.
half a complaint, half a wish.
âwhy doesnât it ever snow here? i want to see everything turn white just once before the break.â
most of your friends laughed. not unkindlyâjust in that way people do when they think youâre only dreaming out loud, when they think nothing will come of it.
but junhui didnât laugh.
like a wish whispered into a well.
and maybe he didnât know what to do with it yetânot exactlyâbut something in him folded the words carefully and tucked them away. like a note. like a promise.
it was three days before winter break.
outside the classroom windows, the sky had already turned that deep blue that slips in just after sunsetâwhen the light is gone, but the dark hasnât fully arrived.
night school had started. students sat restlessly at their desks, half-studying, half-drifting into the promise of freedom.
the teacher had stepped out for a moment, and the room buzzed with low conversation, like bees moving through the last minutes of the day.
it was a surprised sound. not loud, but full of something childlike.
âwaitâlook outside!â
you turned, just in time to see a group of classmates rush toward the windows. the front row stood on tiptoes, palms pressed to glass.
that couldnât be right. the forecast had said nothing about snow.
you pushed your chair back and followed them, weaving your way through shoulders and coats and warm breath fogging the air.
everyone was taller than you. the view was blocked. you couldnât see.
âmove,â you whispered. not angryâjust wanting to see. âlet me through.â
you made it to the window. rested your hands against the cold pane.
and looked out.
and just like thatâyour heart caught in your chest.
then fluttered.
white flakes drifted down beneath the courtyard lights.
not heavy, but certain.
snow.
it fell like a secret the sky had been holding onto. soft. light. timed perfectly, as if the world had been waiting for this moment and only now decided to begin.
you stood there, lips parted in quiet disbelief. it was snowing. really snowing. and for a moment, you felt like a child againâfull of awe and impossible wishes.
you didnât know you were smiling until someone beside you said,
âdidnât think weâd get any this year.â
but you didnât answer.
you were still staring.
and thenâyour gaze lifted.
there was something about it. something in you stirred.
but something whispered: go.
you slipped quietly from the roomâpast the bathroom, toward the stairwell.
up there, the building was quieter. dim. lit only by emergency lights that painted everything in soft gray. your steps echoed on the tile. your breath came in clouds.
you werenât expecting anything, not really.
maybe just a better view.
but the second you opened the rooftop doorâ
a burst of white shot through the air.
and across the rooftopâthere was junhui.
his buzzcut caught the rooftop light like it always did when he forgot his hat. his arms were full of movement. his sweater sleeves pushed to his elbows.
in both hands, he held cans of fake snow spray.
he ran from one end of the rooftop to the other, wide-armed, like a boy trying to make the sky believe in winter.
foam burst around him. it stuck to his sleeves, clung to his shoes, settled into the curve of his grin. his eyebrows were dusted with white. his head looked like someone had shaken powdered sugar over it.
he looked completely ridiculous.
and completely joyful.
you didnât say anything.
you just watched.
watched this boyâwho had always been nearby.
quiet. steady. easy to overlook.
until now.
your fingers curled gently around the doorframe.
your chest was warm and full and aching in a way you didnât yet understand.
you didnât interrupt him. you let the silence bloom. let the rooftop fill with laughter and drifting foam. let the moment live.
when he finally slowedâbreathless, flecked with white, grinning at no one in particularâyou stepped back.
you returned to the classroom, brushed your sleeves clean, sat down without saying a word.
you stifled your smile. but not completely.
and for the rest of the night, while classmates flicked through pages and the teacher talked over the hum of exhaustion, you kept looking at the window.
because it hadnât really snowed that night.Â
but somehowâsomehow, that didnât make it any less magical.
ŕ¨:ŕ§âââââââââ ¡ ¡ âââââââââŕ¨:ŕ§
youâd fainted during p.e.
the gym had been too warm, the air thick with sweat and shouting. you hadnât eaten much at lunchâjust a piece of melon bread and half a juice box.
exams were coming. the kind of pressure that doesnât scream, but wraps itself around your chest and quietly tightens.
you didnât remember falling.
only the way your knees gave way, and the lights above seemed to blur and stretchâlike looking at the sky through tears.
when you woke, it was in the nurseâs office.
the cot was stiff. the overhead lights hummed like insects.
everything smelled faintly of eucalyptus and bleach.
your limbs were heavy. your lips were dry.
the nurse handed you a paper cup of water and touched your wrist with cool fingers.
âno visitors. no distractions,â she said gently. âjust rest. just breathe.â
the ticking wall clock was too loud.
outside the thin glass windows, the world kept moving without you. footsteps echoed in the halls. somewhere, a ball bounced in the gym. a motorcycle passed by on the road beyond the school wall.
you felt a little bit forgotten. not in a tragic way. just in the small, tired way a person feels when the world keeps turning and they donât quite know how to step back on.
the window had been cracked open for air. now it brought something else.
you pushed yourself upright, your muscles slow to respond, and shuffled to the window.Â
awkwardly balanced on a dented metal bucket, half-hidden behind the hedges by the back wall. his vest was crooked. his buzzcut damp with sweat. cheeks pink from running or nervesâor both.
he was holding a sheet of notebook paper. on it, in thick black marker:
for your entertainment only â starring wen junhui
and underneath, in smaller print, careful and crooked:
you didnât know what to say.
he raised a coin. his fingers fumbled a little. thenâwith obvious concentrationâhe pulled it from behind his ear. it nearly dropped, but he caught it just in time, lifting it toward the sunlight like it was something more than metal.
then came the flower. pulled from his sleeve. crumpled and slightly wilted from living in his jacket all afternoon. he twirled it between his fingers like it was enchanted, then bowed low, with all the exaggerated flair of a stage magician.
you laughed harder than you had in weeks.
the nurse glanced over from her desk, her mouth twitching toward a smile.
âyou know⌠for someone who fainted, you sure are lively now. feeling better?â she asked.
junhui offered one last bow from atop the bucket, then climbed down with care, tossing you a sheepish grin. he jogged away down the pathâone hand waving, the other stuffed in his pocket like it was all perfectly normal.
you didnât call after him.
you just watched. watched until he turned the corner and disappeared behind the building.
then you placed your hand against the window.
later, when youâd look back on that day, it wouldnât be the fainting you remembered.
the bucket. the magic coin. the smile that asked for nothing except your laughter.
and somewhere between the nurseâs ticking clock and the glint of sunlight on junhuiâs moist buzzcutâyou felt something shift.
and maybe that had been the real trick all along.
ŕ¨:ŕ§âââââââââ ¡ ¡ âââââââââŕ¨:ŕ§
your alarm didnât go offâagain.
you launched out of bed ten minutes before the bell, clothes half-on, brain still fogged from the night before. no time for breakfast. no breath to spare. you told yourself you were focused. but really, you just didnât want to stop.
8:00 a.m.
cramming in chemistry. reaction mechanisms blurring together, your eyes fluttering shut every few seconds like a warning you kept ignoring.
9:00 a.m.
math. formulas circling like storms you couldnât break through. you wrote and erased and wrote again, chasing answers that refused to settle.
10:00 a.m.
english literature. hands trembling, highlighter smearing across lines of poetry that used to feel like old friends but now read like riddles.
by lunch, you were fraying.
you made your way to the vending machinesâyour last hope. you slid in four quarters and pressed the button.
you stared at the machine like it might change its mind.
back to social studies at 11:15, where the teacher spoke of revolutions, but all you could hear was the quiet throb of your empty stomach and the distant roar of your own body asking you to stop.
12:00 p.m.
a history test. the words on the page floated like fish beneath waterâjust out of reach. your pencil slipped twice. you erased until the paper bruised.
12:45 p.m.
you stumbled out of the classroom like youâd been underwater. the test over. your energy gone. your thoughts knotted. your chest tight.
you made it halfway to the next class before your vision blurred.
your body was done pretending.
you slid into your seat in the self-study room, two minutes late. rows of desks under harsh fluorescent light. the room was split between silence and the frantic rustle of pages being turned too quickly.
you sat thereâaching, on edge, jaw tight enough to crack.
if someone tapped their pencil, you thought, you might actually scream.
you opened your notebook and started drawing nonsense in the marginsâspirals, stars, anything to hold your hand steady.
and thenâa soft touch on your shoulder.
a hand reached past you from behind.
in it: a mango juice box.
the straw had already been poked in, placed just right. there was no note. no announcement. just quiet knowing.
calm and steady. that same gentle presence that didnât ask for attention, but always noticed.
he didnât say anything.
the smile he gave youâsmall, warm, realâwas more comforting than any word.Â
it said: i see you. you looked like you needed this.
you took the juice box in both hands, exhaled softly through your nose, and let yourself lean into the sweetness. the mango scent filled your lungs. the straw touched your lips. you didnât realize how hungry you were for kindness until you tasted it.
he nodded once. then turned. walked back to his desk like nothing had happened.
something tinyâand yet vast.
he had offered you relief. not the dramatic kind. not the heroic kind. but the kind that says: you donât have to keep doing this alone. and for a little while, that was enough. more than enough.
ŕ¨:ŕ§âââââââââ ¡ ¡ âââââââââŕ¨:ŕ§
it had started raining while you were in the library.
youâd been there for hours. tucked into your usual seat by the window, a half-finished stack of notes spread around you like a fortress.
outside, the sky shifted. first, a whisper of soundâjust rain brushing glass. then, a steady rhythm. like the clouds had finally let go of everything theyâd been holding.
the courtyard shimmered. rain fell in clean silver lines, each drop catching the light like a bead of glass. water pooled in the bricks, danced across the rooftops.
a few students ran for cover under shared umbrellas, laughingâloud and bright against the gray.
you sighed and leaned deeper into your chair.
you knew even before you checked. but still, you opened your bag. just in case. moved aside flashcards. an old granola bar youâd meant to throw out.
you could wait. but you were already tired, and your stomach had begun to ache in that dull, low way that hunger does when itâs been ignored too long.
your hoodie wouldnât help. not in this kind of rain.
you were still trying to talk yourself into moving when a quiet voice broke through the hush behind you.
âyou donât have one?â
junhui stood a few feet away. his sweater was damp. raindrops clung to the sleeves. his buzzcut looked darker wetâpressed close to his skinâand his cheeks were pink from the cold. he wasnât out of breath, but there was something like urgency in the way he looked at you.
you gave a small, embarrassed shrug.
âwasnât expecting rain.â
he followed your gaze to the window.
âweather app said clear skies,â he said softly, almost like he was apologizing for the sky itself.
thenâwithout waitingâhe stepped forward and offered his umbrella.
no drama. no explanation. just a hand outstretched.
âwait⌠what about you?â
not long. just long enough for you to notice.
âmy momâs picking me up in ten minutes.â
he said it like it was true. like it had always been true. like heâd already seen the car coming around the corner.
âgo on. youâll catch a cold.â
you looked at him for a moment longerâeyes tracing the damp lines on his sweater, the way his shoes squeaked faintly when he shifted.
your fingers brushed his, just for a second. the umbrella handle was warm. it held the memory of his grip.
you mumbled a thank you, soft as the rain, and stepped past him.
the umbrella opened with a click. a canopy between you and the storm.
you walked slowly, boots splashing lightly against the flooded sidewalk, the rhythmic patter above your head like a song you hadnât known you missed.
by the front gate, you hesitated.
you werenât sure why. something in you pulled.
and thereâjunhui was not under the overhang. not getting into a car.
he was already halfway across the courtyard, his hoodie up, bag slung over one shoulder, walking fast through the storm.
just himâdrenched, purposeful, vanishing into the rain.
he hadnât told the truth.
he didnât want you to hesitate.
didnât want you to be cold, or wet, or worried about him.
so he lied in the kindest way someone can lie. so you could go.
you stood there a moment longer.
the umbrella in your hand felt heavier nowânot because of the rain, but because it meant something. because he meant something.
and maybe you didnât know what to say yet.
but youâd remember this moment.
because sometimes, love doesnât ask for anything in return. sometimes it just hands you an umbrella, smiles gently, and says, âgo on.â
ŕ¨:ŕ§âââââââââ ¡ ¡ âââââââââŕ¨:ŕ§
you lie in the dark. the ceiling glows faintly with borrowed light from the streetlamp outside. your mind humsâslow, full. you replay every kindness junhui ever showed you. the rooftop snow; the magic trick; the juice box; the umbrella.
each one plays back in quiet loops, like an old film reelâgrainy around the edges but impossibly vivid where it matters.
maybe it started with the rooftop.
junhui laughing through the cold, arms full of canned snow, joy pouring out of him like light. it hadnât been real snow, but it had felt realâtruer, somehow, than the flakes you used to chase in your childhood dreams.
then the nurseâs office.
him on that ridiculous bucket, half-hidden, pulling coins and flowers from his sleeves like a boy trying too hard not to try too hard.
your heart had tripped thenâclumsy as the magic trick.
mango. your favorite. offered in silence during exam week, no fuss, no ceremony. as if he'd reached into your thoughts and pulled out exactly what you needed.
and then⌠the umbrella.
the lie about his mom. it hadnât been a lie to impress you. it had been a lie to protect you. a small, gentle untruth, offered not to win your affection but to shield you from discomfort. a kindness that asked for nothing in return.
and now, as you lie there in the quiet, you can finally say it: heâs always been there. always.
your thoughts drift to minghao.
the top student. the star.
quiet. composed. just out of reach.
you used to know everything about himâhow heâd tuck his hair behind his ear when he was concentrating, how heâd glance away when your gaze lingered.
youâd fallen so easily. too easily.
and despite the notes you slipped into his locker, the deliberate smiles in crowded halls, the careful proximity during meetingsâhe never looked back. not once.
now, in the hush of this moment, you see it clearly.
you gave your heart to someone who never noticed. and missed the one who did.
junhui was never loud. never obvious.
but he was thereâin the background, in the small spaces, in the in-between.
you didnât realize it then. but he did all of itâfor you.
not for praise. not for attention.
your pillow is warm beneath your cheek. your heart is full, but no longer aching. not sharp. not uncertain. just steady. sure.
this wasnât a story of grand gestures.
no confessions shouted in the rain.
you turn your head toward the dark and whisper it into the stillness:
âit was always you, junhui.â
and as the words fall, so does the weight.
your breath softens. your thoughts settle.
in the silence, love doesnât shout.
ŕ¨:ŕ§âââââââââ ¡ ¡ âââââââââŕ¨:ŕ§
the rooftop hadnât changed.
neither had the sky, or the rusted railing, or the faded paint clinging to the walls like old chalk dust. it was quiet now. everyone else had gone back insideâthe laughter of old classmates echoing down the stairwell.
wen junhui sat beside you, legs stretched out, arms resting on his knees. he looked at easeâlike sitting next to you didnât make his heart race anymore.
or maybe it still did. maybe he was just better at hiding it now.
you turned to him, voice soft. a little uncertain. âcan i tell you something?â
junhui glanced overâsurprised, but open. âof course.â
âi used to think⌠i realized i liked you during college. or after. when i stopped chasing things that didnât matter. but thatâs not true.â
he blinkedâcurious, quiet.
you smiled. just a little. âi knew way before that. i just didnât know i knew.â
he didnât speak. he waitedâlike he always had.
so you kept going. âdo you remember the snow?â
âyou were running around like a maniac, spraying that stuff everywhere.â
junhui looked over, startled. âwaitâyou were on the rooftop?â
you laughed softly. âyeah. i pushed through everyone at night school just to see it. then i thoughtâwhy not go up top? so i snuck up there. and honestly⌠i thought it was real snow.â
he laughed tooâlow and a little sheepish. âi just wanted to make you happy.â
you laughed harder. and he smiled like it was the only thing heâd needed all day.
âi thought it was stupid,â you admitted. âbut i went home and couldnât stop thinking about how happy you lookedâjust trying to make me happy.â
your voice lowered. âi shouldâve known then.â
your gaze dropped to your lap, fingers twisting in your sweater. âand when i fainted during p.e.âyou came to the nurseâs office, even when no one was allowed in.â
he let out a breath of a laugh. âthrough the window.â
âyou stood on a bucket and did the worst magic trick iâve ever seen,â you said, grinning. âi laughed so hard the nurse scolded me for being âtoo lively for someone who fainted.ââ
junhui groaned, embarrassed. âi practiced that trick for hours. it was supposed to look cooler.â
âit didnât,â you teased. then, softer: âbut i loved it anyway.â
he blinked. just once. the word caught him off guard.
âthen there was the juice box,â you went on. âmango. my favorite. i didnât even tell you, but somehow⌠you knew.â
he said nothing, but his expression shiftedâlike he was holding his breath beneath the quiet.
âand the umbrella,â you added. âyou gave it to me and said your mom was picking you up.â
âshe wasnât,â he admitted.
âi know. i saw you running home in the rain.â
you looked at him, steady now.
âthatâs when i realized something.â
he leaned in slightlyânot pushing, just listening.
âevery time something small made me feel seen⌠it was you. every quiet comfort. every laugh when i didnât want to smile. every unspoken effort. it was always you.â
the air between you didnât move. not tense. not awkward. just fullâlike the moment knew it was important.
you reached out and took his hand. âiâm sorry i didnât say anything back then,â you said. âbut iâm saying it now.â
his voice came out quieter than he meant it to. âsaying what?â
you squeezed his fingers. âthat i like you. that iâve always liked youâeven before i had the words. and now that i do⌠i donât want to waste any more time.â
junhuiâs gaze dropped to your hands. then, slowly, he lifted them to his lips and kissed your knucklesâsoft and reverent, like he still couldnât believe he was allowed.
âi wouldâve waited longer,â he whispered.
you leaned your head onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. âiâm glad you didnât have to.â
and the rooftop stayed stillâlike it was holding its breath for you. like even the sky knew that something quiet and beautiful had just come full circle.
in the quiet of the bedroom, lit only by the warm, honeyed glow of a desk lamp, junhui stood before the mirror. his reflection shimmered faintlyânot because the light flickered, but because something inside him did.
his tie hung loose around his neck, a soft symbol of the day unraveling. his sleeves were rolled with care, like he was preparing not for sleep, but for something ceremonial. around him, the room held its breath. flashcards were scattered and half-buried beneath a hoodie, a calendar leaned tiredly against the wall, and socks clung to corners like forgotten thoughts. everything was ordinary. everything was holy.
in one hand, a worn coin. in the other, a bent silk flower. he looked at himselfânot vainly, not with judgmentâbut with the quiet scrutiny of someone hoping to find something true. something brave.
he flipped the coin. it spun, glinted, missed. landed with a soft metallic sigh on the carpet.
âno, no, noâŚâ he murmured, as though saying it aloud might pull the moment back.
he bent down, picked it up again, stood straighter. breathed deeper.
another try. the flip worked this time. the shuffle did not. the cards scattered across the floor like startled birdsâred and black wings, paper-thin, slipping from his fingers.
he ran a hand over his buzzcut, not in frustration exactly, but in that quiet way boys do when they are trying not to cry.
on the wall, a sticky note trembled faintly in the air: make them laugh. written in blue ink, underlined twice. above it, smaller, quieter: just be brave. once.
he sat on the edge of his bed. the flower drooped between his fingers, brushing against his wrist like it was trying to comfort him. he turned it over in his hand. thereâa frayed petal near the tip. it made him think of you.
you, and your laughâthe real one, not the one you used when teachers told jokes, but the one that crinkled your nose just slightly and made your eyes shine like youâd remembered something beautiful.
he wasnât rushing toward perfection anymore. he was moving toward truth.
coin in one hand. flower in the other.
he took a breath, not sharp or rushedâbut full, like someone breathing in the sky.
âyou got this,â he whispered, and this time the words didnât feel like armor. they felt like hope.
he flicked the coin. caught it, cleanly. held it near his ear like he was letting the mirror listen too.
the flower slipped from his hand. fell.
he looked down, and thenâhe smiled. a small, crooked thing. not defeat. something gentler. acceptance, maybe. grace.
he picked it up, brushed it off like it mattered. and said, to no one and to everything,
he didnât sleep much that night.
not from fear exactlyâthough fear was there, fluttering inside him like moths behind a curtainâbut because something in him wouldnât stop reaching for that moment. that exact, shining second when it all came together. when heâd get it right.
he didnât know yet that the next day youâd faint in p.e., that your knees would buckle like a puppetâs, that the nurse would wave everyone away with clinical hands and closed doors.
he didnât know heâd end up outside your window in the bushes, balancing on a dented metal bucket with a paper sign and shaking hands.
all he knewâright then, in that small, lamp-lit roomâwas that if the moment came, even the smallest one,
because sometimes love doesnât arrive with trumpets.
sometimes, it shows up in a boy with a coin and a flower,
