The bus pulled away with a low rumbling hum, shrinking down the street until it became a smudge of color between the trees. Yet even after it disappeared, I still felt the warmth of that fleeting touch on my fingertips — the moment he reached back without thinking, guided purely by something soft inside him.
I didn't move for a long moment.
The eucalyptus leaves rustled overhead, the world returning to its usual rhythm. Students' voices faded behind me, conversations blurring into indistinguishable noise. But my heartbeat stayed steady, anchored by the simple truth in his small, trembling gesture.
He was trying.
Not in the loud, dramatic ways other boys did.
Not with bold confessions or confident smiles.
His way was quieter.
Smaller.
But it carried weight.
Because he didn't give pieces of himself easily.
Every inch he offered felt earned.
And today, he had offered more than he realized.
I let the moment sit with me until the warmth settled deep into my chest. Eventually, I turned and headed home.
But something in my steps was lighter.
---
The Morning After
Sunlight spilled across my bedroom the next morning, warm and bright enough to stir me awake before my alarm. I blinked slowly, stretching beneath the blanket.
That tiny moment — that small brush of his hand — resurfaced immediately in my mind. My stomach did an involuntary flip, heat spreading across my cheeks.
I hadn't imagined it.
He had reached for me.
A small, shy, trembling movement…
but more real than any words.
I took my time getting ready, choosing a sweater slightly softer than usual, hair a bit neater, nothing obvious but… intentional.
When I arrived at school, the front gates buzzed with students. Some carried textbooks, others snacks; the soccer team crowded near their usual corner, loudly recapping a game.
But my eyes scanned the quieter edges — the safe places he always gravitated toward.
And then I saw him.
Standing near the wall, notebook hugged against his chest, sparkles floating around him in a barely-there shimmer of soft rose and pale gold.
He noticed me at the same moment.
His sparkles brightened in small bursts — startled, shy, warm.
I walked toward him, letting the noise fade behind me. He held his notebook slightly higher, as if shielding himself from the morning rush, but his eyes remained fixed on me.
When I reached him, he flipped open the notebook.
A single line waited:
"Good morning."
I smiled. "Good morning."
His sparkles swirled gently, relieved.
He hesitated, then wrote:
"Were you okay yesterday? After… everything?"
Everything.
He didn't name the moment on the bus, but it sat between us, warm and fragile.
"I was more than okay," I said quietly.
He swallowed, sparkles flickering pink.
Before he could write again, a sudden burst of laughter nearby made him flinch. A group of students ran past, brushing too close. His shoulder tensed, sparkles scattering in nervous silver.
Instinctively, I stepped closer.
Not touching him.
Just standing near enough that the noisy world felt farther away.
His sparkles softened again.
He wrote:
"You always do that."
"Do what?"
"Make space quiet."
The words hit me with unexpected softness.
"I'm glad it helps," I whispered.
His fingers tightened on his pen.
Then he added:
"It helps me breathe."
I felt the weight of those words settle around us — gentle, heavy, important.
---
The Walk to Class
We started toward the building together. Today, he didn't walk behind me or beside me with a safe distance between us. He stayed close — not touching, but close enough that our sleeves nearly brushed.
An intentional closeness.
Halfway to the stairs, he slowed.
He tilted the notebook toward me.
"Can we… take the long way?"
I blinked.
"The long way?"
He nodded.
Around the building lay a quieter path lined with hydrangea bushes and teacher parking spots — a place few students wandered through. Calm. Hidden. Safe.
I smiled. "Of course."
Relief washed over his sparkles like warm sunlight across water.
We walked the quiet route, morning breeze threading through the soft petals of the hydrangeas. His steps eased into a comfortable rhythm. Each time a loud sound echoed in the distance, his sparkles wavered — but every time, he looked at me, and they steadied.
About halfway down the path, he stopped again.
He opened his notebook slowly.
"I don't know what to do about the festival."
I nodded. "Does it scare you still?"
He shook his head.
Then wrote:
"It scares me.
But I want to try."
I felt my breath hitch a little. This wasn't the same boy I had met weeks ago — the boy who flinched at footsteps and hid behind silence.
This was someone standing at the edge of change.
"What makes you want to try?" I asked.
He wrote without hesitation:
"You."
My heartbeat stuttered.
Then he added, smaller:
"And the way you look at me like I can."
I swallowed the sudden warmth rising in my chest.
"You can," I whispered.
His sparkles trembled into a soft glow — accepting my belief even if he didn't fully believe himself yet.
---
A Moment Before Class
By the time we reached the building, the first bell had rung. Students hurried around us, rushing to grab books or fix their uniforms. He moved closer, instinctively seeking the calmer space beside me.
But as we approached the stairwell, he tugged lightly at my sleeve.
I paused.
He flipped open the notebook, writing slowly, carefully:
"Can we… sit together in music room today?
Before club starts?"
It wasn't just a request.
It was trust — quiet, vulnerable, and new.
"I'll be there," I said.
He nodded, sparkles shifting to a hopeful glow.
But then something changed.
As he tucked the notebook under his arm, his hand hesitated at his side. His fingers twitched slightly — the same way they had on the bus yesterday.
A tiny movement.
Uncertain.
Curious.
Almost reaching.
He didn't touch me.
But he didn't pull away either.
He walked the remaining steps with his hand close to mine, close enough that the warmth between us felt deliberate.
At the classroom door, he stopped again, sparkles shimmering faintly.
He wrote one last line:
"Thank you… again."
"For what this time?" I asked gently.
He looked at me, eyes deep with something delicate and brand new.
He wrote:
"For making me feel like I deserve to be seen."
My breath caught.
I wanted to say something — something soft, something true — but the bell rang loudly overhead, startling him.
His sparkles flared.
So I whispered before he could retreat:
"You do. Every day."
He froze.
Then nodded — slow, small, real — before slipping quietly into the classroom.
As I followed him in, I realized something:
He wasn't just letting me into his world.
He was saving a place for me inside it.