The wind was gentle that afternoon, brushing along the school courtyard as if trying to turn the day softer for him. Students scattered in groups across the gate area — laughing, shouting, sharing snacks — but he and I stood just outside the main walkway, where the noise thinned like a fading echo.
He seemed calmer now, but underneath that calm, his sparkles continued a soft, pulsing movement. Not nervous… just thoughtful. Deep in some internal world I wished I could read as easily as he read me.
He watched the leaves sway overhead, hands tucked inside his sleeves. For a moment, we didn't talk. Silence wasn't awkward with him. It was space — space he breathed inside, space I learned to appreciate.
Finally, he reached for his notebook.
I waited.
He wrote slowly, as if each word needed its own breath.
"Did you mean it?"
I tilted my head. "Mean what?"
He hesitated.
Then wrote beneath it:
"When you said you care."
The question wasn't timid.
It wasn't insecure.
It was careful — the kind of careful that comes from someone who has spent years building walls and is now, painfully, prying out a brick to peek through.
I stepped a little closer, not enough to overwhelm him, but enough that my voice wouldn't have to compete with the sound of students leaving.
"Yes," I said quietly. "I meant it."
His sparkles trembled — a faint shimmer of gold rippling outward like a heartbeat.
He lowered his gaze, fingers resting lightly on the notebook's edge.
Then he wrote:
"I didn't think anyone would."
My chest tightened.
"I do," I said softly. "Not because I pity you… or feel responsible for you… but because I genuinely like being with you."
His breath caught. I could see it — the way his shoulders rose sharply then lowered in a slow, uneven exhale.
He blinked once, twice, as if trying to steady himself against the weight of something unfamiliar.
Something warm.
Something terrifying.
Something he wanted but didn't know how to hold.
---
A Small Step Forward
I was the one who started walking this time. Normally, he led us toward the bus stop or the quieter side of the street, always avoiding crowds. But today I stepped forward first, turning slightly to see if he would follow.
He did.
Immediately.
No hesitation.
His steps were quiet, deliberate. The afternoon sun cast a long, soft shadow behind him, streaked with flecks of pale gold drifting from his sparkles.
We walked past the row of cherry trees lining the fence. Their branches rustled above us, petals still clinging to them like tiny pink promises. He reached out once, almost unconsciously brushing his fingers across a low branch.
He paused.
Looked at the petals.
Then wrote:
"These always fall too fast."
"Maybe," I said. "But while they're here, they're beautiful."
He stared at the petals again, sparkles shifting to a warm blush pink — the same shade they carried.
Then he wrote:
"I want to stay beautiful for a while too."
The words hit harder than he probably meant them to.
I touched the branch beside his hand. "You already are."
He froze.
His sparkles burst in a startled flare — not bright, but warm, as if lit by internal light.
He didn't write back.
Didn't hide.
Didn't shrink.
He just absorbed the words quietly, and his sparkles softened to a light that seemed to settle deeper into his skin, like he was learning to believe something new about himself.
---
The Walk Toward the Bus Stop
The closer we got to the bus stop, the fewer students we encountered. The road grew calmer, the noise fading until it was just the two of us and the steady hum of passing cars.
He walked close enough that our shoulders nearly brushed. Not touching — he still wasn't that bold — but the space between us was thin now. Feather-thin. Easily breakable.
At one point, a group of first-years ran by, laughing loudly as they raced each other down the sidewalk. He flinched instinctively. His sparkles flickered silver, a flash of old habit.
I slowed my steps, giving him time to settle.
He noticed.
After a moment, he wrote:
"You always adjust to me."
"I'm not adjusting," I said gently. "I'm matching you."
He looked at me, head tilted slightly, sparkles wavering in thoughtful waves.
Then he wrote:
"Why?"
"Because it's easier to walk with someone when you're in step with them."
His eyes widened faintly, then softened. He closed the notebook slowly, tucking it against his chest as if the warmth inside him needed both hands to hold.
The silence that followed wasn't heavy — it was full. Full of things he couldn't say yet and things I was patient enough to wait for.
---
Arriving at the Stop
The bus stop was quiet, shaded by a tall eucalyptus tree that swayed lightly in the breeze. He stood at the edge of the bench, not sitting, but leaning slightly against the pole as if grounding himself.
I stood beside him.
He didn't take out the notebook right away. Instead, he just watched the pavement, as if trying to arrange his thoughts carefully.
Finally, he lifted the notebook and wrote:
"Do you ever think I'm difficult?"
"No," I answered before he could doubt himself.
He blinked.
"Everyone has parts that take time to understand," I added. "Yours just… speak quietly. That's not difficult."
His sparkles turned a soft honey color — warm and slow.
He hesitated, then wrote very small:
"I'm afraid I'll disappoint you."
My heart squeezed.
"You haven't," I said firmly. "You won't."
He stared at the page.
Then, slowly, lifted his gaze until his eyes met mine.
It was the longest he'd ever held eye contact.
Soft brown eyes, framed by lashes that trembled with uncertainty but didn't look away.
He looked like someone standing at the edge of a bridge, gathering the courage to take one step across.
And then he wrote:
"I want to try harder… because it's you."
The bus rounded the corner just as the words settled between us. The brakes hissed, doors opening with a soft mechanical sigh.
He didn't move.
He waited for my reaction.
I stepped closer — not touching him, just filling the space he left open for me.
"You're trying more than you know," I said softly. "And I see all of it."
His breath shivered.
His sparkles pulsed gently around him like a heartbeat made of light.
Then something happened.
Something small.
But monumental.
As he stepped onto the bus, he reached back — not with certainty, not with confidence, but with quiet instinct — and his fingertips brushed mine.
A small, fleeting touch.
Barely there.
But intentional.
His eyes widened the moment he realized what he'd done. His sparkles flared bright pink.
I smiled, even if he didn't see it.
He didn't take my hand.
Not yet.
But he reached.
For someone like him, that was bravery louder than shouting.
He took a seat by the window. After a second of hesitation, he turned his notebook to the glass so I could read the last line before the bus pulled away.
"Thank you for today.
Let's… stay like this a little longer."
As the bus rolled down the street, his sparkles glowed faintly behind the window — warm, glowing, steady.
Blooming.