#experimenting

you’d asked him if he wanted to play. they’d said it was his birthday, after all. but after a long pause and bewildered blush, zayne said no. 

the first three times you asked him, zayne said no.

his answer changed when the leaves did. 

in the brisk november air, pushed forward by a gust of wind, he bumped into a rowdy group of older kids. apparently, his murmured apology hadn’t been good enough. 

first, they threatened to snap his glasses. shatter the lenses so he couldn’t read anymore.

the wicked sneers and guesses that he was special came after. 

through it all, zayne hadn't said a word—he didn't have to. 

because before he could decide whether to tell a teacher or walk away, you were blocking him from view as best you could with your shorter frame, glaring at the boys with molten hatred in your heart. 

and when their leader snorted and took a step toward you both, you unclenched your fist and scratched him right across the face. 

zayne had never been one for violence. his parents told him it never solved anything, and he’d always seen more value in helping people than hurting them. 

but the next time you asked him to play, he nodded his head yes.

he was surprisingly good at make-believe—the doctor to your nurse. and when you invited him back the next day, and the next day, and the day after that, zayne felt he’d made his first friend. 

adult zayne still gets teased, sometimes. 

for the way he speaks like a nonfiction narrator. for the way he retreats from interactions and rejects invitations. for the way he’s hard to read unless you’re fluent in the language of him.

but with you by his side, he’s learned to pay it no mind. 

you like his cadence and his reticence and his rigid kind of softness. you tell him all of it, so he doesn’t have to wonder.

and when the crueler slights wear down the barrier you’ve helped him build, you repeat yourself. 

day after day, you save him. just like you did on the playground.