#hypersensitive reader

You had a few friends — two or three who didn’t live in New York, and the rest who were usually busy. Saying you didn’t like them would have been an exaggeration; you did like them, or at least you appreciated them. Let’s just say that there was always something off in your relationships. An uneasiness. A restraint. An apprehension. At first, you had told yourself that the problem came from you, and that it was therefore up to you to fix it. But after many moments of self-questioning, you had come to realize that it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t entirely theirs either. It was a subtle, insidious mix of upbringing, principles, values and a touch of selfishness.

All you wanted, all you needed, was respect.

The kind of respect we’re supposed to show when we learn that a friend’s father has died, when we mechanically repeat “my condolences.” Or the kind that comes instinctively when we see someone in a wheelchair and hold the door open for them. Respect for boundaries imposed by certain situations, often sensitive, often painful.

You didn’t want useless condolences or doors held open for you. You wanted a similar kind of respect, but one that differed slightly. That’s where the complexity of your situation came in, that constant puzzle of “Is it my responsibility to say it? Or is it theirs to understand?”

Children are taught to greet their parents with a kiss, to comfort with a hug. The world — almost entirely — is taught to interact through touch, through physical closeness. But you didn’t function like that. You had been born with a foreign body, one that reminded you of what you were not with every single movement. Your way of communicating had grown through words, actions, even scents. Maybe it was hypersensitivity. Maybe autism. But whether there was a diagnosis or not didn’t matter — you were like this, with or without a piece of paper to prove it.

So it wasn’t your fault if you needed to sit a little farther away when talking to someone. It still wasn’t your fault if physical contact made you uncomfortable. And yet, you struggled to tell yourself that it was other people’s fault either. Not everyone had grown up with that awareness, sometimes it had to be learned later.

Every day, you tried to put boundaries in place. Simple things, things that seemed easy enough to understand to you, accessible enough that the people facing you would do little more than raise a surprised eyebrow upon hearing them. But it was never enough for you to feel fully at ease, fully yourself. That was why saying you loved your friends was complicated. You were never completely free, always on edge. How could you appreciate people wholeheartedly if they were constantly a potential danger?

One day, you found the courage to talk about all of this with a friend. She looked at you for two seconds too long before saying, “You know you’ll never find what you’re looking for, right? No one knows how to react naturally with someone else.” You simply nodded, holding back your tears and swallowing the knot in your throat. She’s right, you told yourself. And yet, on some nights, when sleep wouldn’t come and you imagined a perfect life, you could hear an inner voice screaming that she had been wrong that day. No one should accept a life like this, the voice echoed. It’s their responsibility to make the effort and if they don’t, then they’re not real friends.

You liked that thought. It sounded right.

A few weeks later, you met Agent Benjamin L. Poindexter.

You were waiting for your order at the counter of the small diner-bar where you sometimes went for lunch when a blond man walked in. Several heads turned at the sight of the Federal Bureau of Investigation uniform. Yours was no exception, you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. He ordered a strong black coffee, paid, then waited for his cup. When you picked up your bag of food, you couldn’t help but notice the focused expression on the stranger’s face. It didn’t worry you, after all he worked for the FBI. That coffee will probably do him some good, you thought, checking that nothing was missing from your order.

Unfortunately for him, his phone started ringing, and you didn’t need to be a genius to understand that he was being urgently called somewhere. He left in a hurry, one hand resting on his service weapon. Everyone in the restaurant stared at him wide-eyed, wondering what was happening in the streets for an FBI agent to be summoned like that. And you, more than anything else, stared at his still-steaming coffee, barely touched.

After that, you did what was probably the stupidest thing you had ever done : you took the coffee and brought it to the FBI building. You didn’t think, driven by a deep empathy for a man who hadn’t even had the chance to enjoy his drink.

Of course, you weren’t welcomed with open arms. Two security agents took the cup and threw it on the ground. Sorry, one of them said, you’re not coming in, and I won’t be giving that coffee to the agent. You had expected it, but at least you had tried.

As you turned back, however, you miraculously crossed paths with the blond stranger. He was coming back from the mission, covered in a thin layer of sweat and dust. You wanted to go talk to him, but this time your shyness caught up with you.

He’s gonna think I’m sort of a creep, you murmured, watching him pass through the security gates.

However, what you hadn’t known at the time was that one of the two security agents had later informed Poindexter that a young man had tried to bring him his coffee. That agent — a little more human than the other — had found it romantic, and if regulations had allowed it, he would have gladly handed the drink to Dex. But it could just as easily have been an attempt at poisoning, or even a bomb — very well concealed.

From that point on, Dex had discreetly checked the surveillance cameras to see your face. And three days later, thanks to what you believed to be pure coincidence, he saw you again in that same restaurant. He thanked you; you had been incredibly embarrassed that he had learned about your little ordeal. Then, without really explaining why, he had shyly invited you to share that famous coffee with him. You had said yes.

That was how you discovered what friendship truly meant, because two and a half years later, Dex had become your one and only friend. The only one with whom existing in society no longer felt like a burden.

He had never imagined welcoming someone into his home, even less on a regular basis. His space was precious, structured, and the idea of another person moving through it had once seemed absurd. And yet, you were often stretched out on his couch, and the traces of your presence had slowly seeped into the rooms, as if absorbed by the walls themselves.

Most of the time, he no longer paid attention to it, the kind of indifference humans display when witnessing an armed robber assaulting a woman, when they close their eyes as a form of self-protection. Dex did something similar, though in a healthier way. Years of psychological conditioning couldn’t be undone in the blink of an eye without consequences, so his brain adapted like this. It felt as if you had always been part of his life.

“Coffee?” your voice echoed through the white living room.

Poindexter lifted his gaze from the newspaper he had picked up from his mailbox and gave you a small nod. You accepted it with a smile.

You didn’t live with him, but you spent most of your time together. You had a strict routine, one that was strangely pleasant. You finished work at 5:30 p.m, he at 6:00, so you walked halfway, reaching the intersection of a crowded street with an unpronounceable name. You turned left, arrived in front of the FBI building, and at 6:05 your blond friend stepped through the metal gates to join you. Simple.

Friday was the only exception. That day, he picked you up from work, and you went to the pizzeria Dex had introduced you to. He always ordered the same thing, while your choice depended entirely on how you felt that day. Then you went back to his place — or, very occasionally yours — to talk while eating. That was your daily life. It could have been frightening to be caught in such a routine, but strangely enough, it was reassuring.

Reassuring, you often thought of that word when you were with Dex. You felt safe, not only because he worked for the FBI, but because he respected you without you ever having to ask.

“Do you remember Alex?” you asked, setting the steaming mug down on the high table.

He gave another affirmative nod, brief and gentle. If only you knew how many things he had memorized about you, you would probably have felt embarrassed, just like you did when he ordered your favorite drink for you at the coffee shop.

“I think he tried to get my number from another coworker,” you admitted as you sat down across from him.

Situations like that always make you uncomfortable. It was flattering, and yet the same question always crept into your mind. Did he see you as a man? Or… a woman?

Dex never took his eyes off you, as usual. One hand wrapped around his snow-white mug, he unconsciously tightened his jaw in a calming rhythm — as if telling himself it’s fine, nothing’s wrong yet.

“And you felt the same as usual?” he asked.

You had explained your anxiety to him before, that fear of being loved for something that disgusted you. He had seemed to understand better than anyone else, which had reassured you yet again.

“I think so,” you said quietly. “I wanted to crawl out of my body or… snap my fingers and transform, even though I know I’m a man, and that some half-stranger isn’t going to change that.” You paused, searching for even a trace of boredom in the blue eyes across from you, but instead you found an overwhelming interest in your words. “The worst part is that I know most people who… flirt with me don’t have bad intentions. I just can’t stop seeing a reflection of a woman in their eyes.”

Silence settled above your heads, the kind that always accompanied the time Dex needed to form sincere answers, to shed the mask of the perfect citizen he wore daily.

“If you feel it,” he said, his voice roughened, “then there’s probably some truth to it. At least, I think so. When I stop a man, I see it or maybe I feel that he’s dangerous.”

Your curious gaze lingered on his lips for two long seconds, letting your mind absorb the words.

“And what do you do in those moments?”

“I shoot.”

The smile that split your lips sent a shiver through Dex. You understood him so well.

“So I guess I’d need a gun for every Alex I come across,” you laughed, letting your head rest on your crossed arms. “But then you’d have to arrest me.”

The coffee in your friend’s mug was cooling at a steady pace as you brushed the cup with your fingertips, occasionally feeling the warmth radiating from his hand resting against it.

“You’re not dangerous,” he said softly.

You lifted your head just a few centimeters, enough to look at the man sitting across from you while still hiding your smile.

“And you’re not an Alex. That’s why I feel so safe around you.”

The rest of the evening unfolded as it usually did. You spent most of your time talking. He told you — without too many details — about the heavy report he had to finish, and mostly about the fact that he didn’t really know what to put in it. You asked him several questions to help him think it through, and at the last one he answered: She was going to throw herself onto the tracks. The train was coming, so I neutralized her before she caused an accident. She was a criminal who had been wanted for years. I just did my job. You then told him that he had just answered his own question — he had done his job. That was exactly what he needed to explain in the report.

Dex sometimes had moments of clarity, flashes where he wondered how you could stay with him, how you could be his friend. He had always been afraid that people would abandon him and most of the time, they did. Yet there was something deep inside him, a quiet certainty whispering that you would never leave. It wasn’t enough to make his insecurities disappear, but it helped.

He told you about his days at work, about the things he did there, and you were just as kind whether he talked about paperwork or a murder. He didn’t try to understand why you were still there after everything he said, he simply appreciated the way his muscles relaxed in your presence. Just as he noticed how your behavior shifted around him.

You were anxious, always at least slightly on guard, in a park just as much as in a grocery store. You were bright, but veiled, a veil that seemed to dissolve when you were with Dex. At his side, your shoulders were no longer tense, your whole body moved more freely. The simple act of sitting comfortably with one leg tucked under you felt natural with him, whereas elsewhere it didn’t. You had never really explained this to him. You dropped hints — that you felt safe with him, that you trusted him — but you never spoke about the main reason, even though you knew it well.

You didn’t really know how to bring it up, unsure whether your friend himself was aware of his own reactions. It wasn’t about fear, but you didn’t want to trigger a spiral of self-questioning in Benjamin. Still, one would have had to be blind not to notice his difficulties. They weren’t a problem in your eyes, but you saw them. The way he seemed to handle the world so differently, as if he perceived the universe from another angle. It wasn’t just a few odd or abnormal behaviors, it was an entire personality that stood outside the norm.

For example, you had noticed that he copied the common reactions of people he saw regularly. You had always made a habit of glancing behind you when entering a place, to see if someone was there and hold the door open. Only two weeks after the beginning of your friendship with Dex, he had started doing the same, and now it was second nature to him.

Despite all of this, you were still there. Maybe because there was a subtle bond between the two of you that allowed you to understand his reactions instinctively. Two men described by the world as “weird” and “lonely” it was almost inevitable that your paths would cross.

Dex, on his side, sometimes saw you as a sign, a person sent by whatever divine figures might exist, meant to put him back on the right path.

Another Friday over, another sigh of relief escaping your lips as you stepped out of your workplace. It was 5:38 p.m. You hurried to grab your things, leaving your post like a thief or a sudden gust of wind.

December. A month filled with melancholy, appreciated only for the holidays that came with it. You hadn’t celebrated Christmas with people in a very long time, yet the idea didn’t repel you. And this year, your winter solitude might finally change, because you were increasingly considering asking Benjamin to celebrate it together.

Truth be told, you had a hard time imagining how he might react. To your knowledge, he had never really celebrated the holidays or maybe only vaguely at the orphanage, which didn’t seem like the most joyful place for it. You had thought about inviting him to your place for Christmas or New Year’s before, but he was always on assignment during that period. The FBI took advantage of the fact that he was single and childless, sending him to work in place of the parents on the team. This year, however, he was finally on vacation and you saw it as your chance to invite him.

Your hands buried deep in the pockets of your coat, you smiled as you breathed out little clouds of steam. There was no age limit for doing that, in your opinion, and it helped pass the time while you waited for Dex.

He shouldn’t be long. Knowing him, he probably timed his movements down to the second to arrive exactly on time at your workplace. The thought made you smile again. Benjamin was truly one of a kind, between his way of interacting with the world and the way he said things that unintentionally sounded like dark humor. You could never be bored. And more than anything, you were grateful to be able to see him like this, because in the same way that you were only truly yourself with him, he was only truly himself with you. For instance, when he talked about a meeting he had had with his superiors, it wasn’t uncommon for him to mention intrusive thoughts that had crossed his mind.

You were interrupted by the sight of your friend appearing at the corner of the street. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his face as neutral as possible until he reached you, his backpack perfectly adjusted on his shoulders. You waved at him as you walked closer. Dex scanned the area behind you at an almost imperceptible speed before stopping in front of you. You were never offended by his lack of physical interaction in public — or even in everyday life. It was actually a quality to you, because everything passed through other means : listening, presence, intention, respect.

“Hey,” you said with the smile that always seemed so welcoming to the blond man in front of you. “I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

As usual, you watched Benjamin’s features relax when he heard your words.

“Some colleagues absolutely wanted to wish everyone happy holidays,” he explained as he started walking beside you. “I figured I had to stay. Otherwise, I think it would’ve been weird.”

You nodded softly, watching your footprints in the freshly fallen snow of the late afternoon. The idea of inviting Dex made you anxious, you were afraid he’d feel awkward, or that he’d accept out of obligation.

“You did the right thing,” you said quietly. “Though… you’re not forced to do everything other people do.”

You dared to glance at him, unable to stop yourself from admiring the structured yet gentle line of his profile. He kept his eyes on the road ahead, probably to stay focused on what you were saying. Still, you noticed a faint expression on his face — something like doubt — which made your unease grow. Dex wore that expression when he didn’t dare ask you something. You tried to push it aside — along with your own anxiety — and finally worked up the courage to ask your question.

You quickened your pace just enough to step in front of him and stop, forcing his full attention. His blue eyes inevitably landed on you, slightly widened by the sudden movement.

“It’s been two years since we met,” you began, almost out of breath from stress, “and I was thinking that it might be kind of silly that we always spend important times of the year separately like Halloween or New Year’s. So maybe, if you want to and if you feel like it, we could spend the holidays together? I mean, Christmas, Christmas Eve, all that? Only if you really want to. I won’t be upset if you say no.”

The cold had nothing to do with the pink tint on your cheeks, nor with your racing heart. You watched every small movement of the man in front of you, searching for something that might make you panic even more.

What you didn’t know, however, was that since the night before, Dex had wanted to ask you the exact same question. That he hadn’t slept, trying to anticipate every possible reaction you might have. That since the morning, all he could think about was how to bring it up, which words to choose, when to say it. That for the past ten minutes, he’d been summoning the courage to invite you to spend Christmas together too.

“Okay,” Dex said, his voice just as tense as yours. “Actually, I— I wanted to suggest it too.”

A silence settled for three long seconds before your stress finally burst into uncontrollable laughter. Dex looked at you, unable to hold back a smile of his own.

“Oh wow,” you laughed, “we really need to learn how to communicate better about how we feel.”

As if your voice had pierced the clouds above you, the snow began to fall in thick flakes.

Dex couldn’t take his eyes off you, the same smile refusing to leave his face. You were beautiful, that was what he’d been thinking for months now. He hadn’t found the right words to describe what happened in his mind whenever he saw you, but he was certain of one thing : it was addictive. He wanted more of it every day. He wanted to see you, talk to you, listen to you. He felt all his barriers crumble in your presence, his mind scrambling in panic to rebuild them, yet deep down it felt like a positive destruction. A healthy one.

You inspired sanity in him. A concept he had been denied at birth.

Love or friendship, he didn’t really know where he stood. He’d never had either in his life. He’d tried to find examples around him : a couple of dealers whose case he was handling, best friends at work. None of it resonated with him. Everything felt dull compared to what you made him feel.

But as he looked at you — your contagious smile, snowflakes settling in your hair — he forgot about labels altogether. Love or friendship mattered little when an overwhelming joy tightened his chest at the thought of the two of you standing in front of a Christmas tree on December 24th. And for the first time since his birth, he knew he could share that euphoria with someone.

With you.

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