Once you become a habit, you start noticing the smaller things. The details that only matter when someone is close enough to see them.
We had jokes that never made sense to anyone else. Half-sentences, unfinished thoughts, a look exchanged across a room that carried an entire conversation. Other people would ask what was so funny, and we wouldn't know how to explain it because explaining it would take away what made it ours.
There was comfort in knowing someone understood you without needing context. You could be tired, annoyed, distracted, or completely quiet, and it wouldn't be questioned. Silence between us wasn't awkward. It wasn't something that needed to be filled. It simply existed, soft and easy, like it belonged there.
I think that was my favourite part.
Being with you didn't require energy. I didn't have to be interesting or cheerful or put together. I could sit beside you and let the world slow down for a while. Even on days when words felt heavy, your presence didn't.
We learned each other's patterns without trying. I knew when you needed space and when you needed company, even if you never said it out loud. You noticed when I was pretending to be fine, and you never forced me to explain. You just stayed.
It felt rare.
It felt safe.
Those moments built something fragile without us realizing it. Because when someone understands you that well, you start believing they always will. You start assuming that connection is permanent, immune to change, untouched by time.
I didn't think about what would happen if the jokes stopped landing the same way. If the silence stopped feeling comfortable. If one day, we sat together and didn't know what to say.
Back then, that future didn't exist.
All I knew was this: with you, even nothing felt like something. And I didn't know how easily something could slowly become nothing at all.