Every morning, he's already there.
By the time I arrive at the warehouse, he's in his usual spot — quiet, tucked slightly out of the way, but never idle. He's always doing something with his hands, something that doesn't demand attention. Nothing loud. Nothing rushed. His movements are steady, deliberate. The kind of work that holds everything together without ever asking to be noticed.
Still, I notice him every time.
And every time, I pretend I don't.
But my eyes find him anyway — like they're trained to. Like they've learned the outline of his presence without needing permission.
And sometimes — I think he notices me too.
It's hard to tell. He doesn't give much away. But there's a certain stillness that settles when we're close. A silence that feels heavier than it should. Not uncomfortable… just full. Like the air between us is holding something neither of us is saying.
He's almost always chewing something too — gum, maybe. It's subtle, almost unnoticeable. But I notice. I always do.
But we never speak.
Not yet.
Weeks goes by like that.
We move around each other in a rhythm that feels accidental but never is. We share space. We breathe the same air. And still, there's this line between us — invisible, but always there.
And yet… I keep hoping.
For a glance that lasts a second longer.
For a nod, a word, anything.
Some small proof that I'm not just imagining this quiet tension between us.
Then one morning… it almost happens.
I'm standing near the back, checking my crate before heading out for deliveries. My dad stands a few feet away, letting me work but staying nearby, like he always does. The routine is muscle memory by now — skim the list, count what's there, cross-check. It's simple.
Until I notice something's off.
A small package is missing — not important enough to make a scene over, but just enough to throw me off.
I crouch down to double-check. Count again.
"Three… four… six…"
Five is missing.
I let out a sigh — more tired than frustrated. Tired of small mistakes. Tired of the silence I pretend doesn't matter. Tired of the part of me that keeps wondering if he ever looks at me the way I keep catching myself looking at him.
Then suddenly — he's there.
No footsteps. No sound.
Just… there. Beside me.
I freeze for a second, surprised.
He doesn't speak.
Doesn't ask if something's wrong.
He just kneels beside me and starts helping.
Calm. Focused. Like it's nothing. Like this is normal.
He reaches for the boxes one by one, checking the labels quietly, sliding them into place with the same precision I've watched from afar.
No small talk. No unnecessary smiles.
Just quiet, unspoken help.
I glance at him, unsure of what to say — if I should say anything at all. But he doesn't look at me. He's in his own world, but he's here, with me. And somehow… that's enough.
Something about his presence quiets the noise in my mind.
The spiraling thoughts. The overthinking.
They slow down.
We finish checking the crate together. It doesn't take long. A minute, maybe two.
Then, just as silently as he arrived, he stands and walks away. Back to his usual spot. As if nothing unusual just happened.
No eye contact.
No words.
But something's changed.
Something small.
Delicate.
Unspoken.
A thread has been pulled. A beginning has been… almost.
And maybe next time — we talk.