#i needto write... write kalim...

He does get frustrated, in quiet, misplaced ways. With nowhere to put the excess of feeling crowding his chest, he lets it spill into harmless things — the heat that won’t let him breathe, the food that tastes slightly off, the smallest inconveniences within arm’s reach. It’s easier to blame the sun, the spices, the room itself than to admit the restlessness has a name, or that it’s tied so closely to you.

Kalim isn’t used to being denied, which only deepens the confusion. Not out of entitlement, but because this is the first thing he’s encountered that can’t be eased with kindness, laughter, or waiting it out. No matter how much warmth he offers, the feeling doesn’t budge — and he can’t understand why wanting you feels so immovable, so painfully stuck.

His frustration slips out in small, unfamiliar ways; laughter that rings a beat too loud, words tumbling out faster than he can pace them. He proposes plans on impulse, half-formed and eager, clinging to the quiet hope that one of them might be enough to make you stay just a little longer.

Even so, you might catch him staring more often than he means to. His attention drifts without warning, pulled toward you before he can rein it back in. He finds himself tracing the curve of your eyes as they soften or sharpen with thought, the fullness of your lips when you’re distracted, the faint wrinkle of your nose when you’re concentrating too hard. By the time he realizes he’s been watching, he’s already memorized the moment; heart stumbling, gaze lingering a second too long; before he hurriedly looks away, pretending he wasn’t just lost in you.

When you’re close but unreachable, restlessness settles into him like an itch beneath the skin. His foot keeps tapping against the floor, uneven and impatient, His fingers tug at his collar again and again as if that might ground him. The smile he wears thins at the edges, trembling under the strain like it’s being held together by effort rather than joy.

When you do touch, he’s careful to pull away too soon. Not for lack of desire, but because there’s far too much of it. Even the briefest brush of hands leaves a ghost behind, a lingering warmth he carries with him long after the contact has ended, replaying it in the quiet spaces of his mind.