Michael became a constant in my days, a comforting rhythm after so much uncertainty. Our hangouts were simple and sweet, moments where I could breathe and just be myself.
"Same time tomorrow?" he'd ask as we parted ways at the cafe, a hopeful grin on his face.
"Definitely," I'd reply, feeling lighter than I had in weeks.
We'd meet after school at the small cafe down the street, sharing iced drinks and swapping stories about our day.
"You won't believe what happened in history class today," I said one afternoon, stirring my drink.
Michael chuckled, "Wait, wait, I want to hear all the details. Don't leave out the juicy parts."
He always listened intently, his eyes warm and patient, making me feel truly seen. Sometimes, we'd wander through the nearby park, practicing lazy strolls beneath the canopy of trees, watching sunlight filter through the leaves.
"Here," Michael said one day, stopping abruptly, "this alley has the best jasmine. Smell it."
I inhaled deeply, "Wow, it's amazing... How did you even find this place?"
He shrugged with a soft smile, "Just exploring the neighborhood. Wanted to show you."
He loved showing me his favorite spots—like the little alley with blooming jasmine or the bookstore tucked away on a quiet corner. One afternoon, he surprised me with a copy of my favorite Chinese Novel, the one I'd mentioned in passing weeks ago.
"Thought you might like it," he said shyly as I flipped through the pages, touched by the thoughtfulness.
"Michael, this is… perfect. How did you remember?" I looked up, heart full.
He scratched the back of his neck, cheeks tinged pink. "I guess I pay more attention than I let on."
Michael's presence was gentle but steady. During our conversations, he often reached out to steady me when my nerves got the better of me—whether that was a quiet touch on my shoulder or a reassuring hand on my back.
"You're doing great," he murmured softly once during a tense moment. "Just breathe."
His kindness blossomed in these small gestures, building a bridge of trust between us.
Our favorite activity quickly became playing video games at his place after school. His room was cozy and filled with casual clutter—his small bookshelf with lots of manga and manhwa, a well-loved guitar leaning against the wall, and anime posters plastered everywhere.
"Beat you this time," I teased, throwing a playful glare his way.
Michael laughed, "No way! That was pure luck. Rematch?"
We laughed over shared victories and friendly defeats, each moment stitching us closer.
One evening, after a particularly intense gaming session, he offered to make us both hot chocolate.
"Want marshmallows?" he called from the kitchen.
I nodded, watching him move around effortlessly. While he was in the kitchen, I noticed a framed photo on his desk—a picture of him and his family, and tucked behind it, a photo of me, smiling brightly at our favorite spot.
My heart skipped a beat, but I quickly dismissed it.
Another time, while walking home together, he casually draped his jacket over my shoulders as a light rain started to fall.
"Here, you'll catch a cold," he said softly.
I glanced at him, surprised. "Thank you."
It was a small gesture, but it felt strangely intimate.
He also started bringing me small gifts – a single tulip, a funny keychain from an anime we'd watched, a bookmark with a quote from my favorite poem.
"Michael, you didn't have to," I said once, holding up the bookmark.
He shrugged, grinning, "I wanted to. Consider it a thank you for putting up with me."
These small tokens of affection were completely missed by me.
These afternoons lacked drama, yet they meant everything. In the quiet companionship, I found a new kind of comfort, one that whispered that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as alone as I'd thought.
But Michael's quiet affections, his subtle gestures of care, went completely unnoticed by me, lost in my own world.