"You laugh too much." It bounces off walls, spills over the table, and somehow, it never touches the corners of her own chest where she keeps the quietest secrets. She doesn't even notice it, lost in the chaos of words tumbling out faster than her mind can order them. Every gesture is unplanned, but it lands somewhere perfectly. She leans forward, spilling a little tea, brushing it off without a second thought, apologizing to nobody, her hands fluttering like small wings.
You watch from the corner of your mind, quiet, invisible. Not yet a voice, not yet a presence she can name. You are a shadow behind her smile, a stillness that exists only in the pause between her laughter and the next word she says. You are learning the rhythm of her; every smile, every flicker of movement, every word she lets slip without thinking.
She is all light. She doesn't notice the way the sunlight through the window catches the gold in her hair, makes it seem almost alive. She doesn't notice the little curve at the corner of her mouth when she laughs at herself. She doesn't notice that the world seems to soften slightly wherever she walks.
"She'll be fine," you say to yourself quietly, for the first time. Not aloud. Not yet. You are still learning how to name this feeling. You aren't talking to her. You are learning to hold her from afar.
She hums a tune she doesn't know she remembers. Maybe it's from a song she heard years ago. Maybe it's just a pattern her brain likes. She hums as she dries her hands, tilts her head, and tucks her hair behind her ear. She doesn't notice the pause in the hallway, the quiet presence behind her. You almost reach out, but you don't. Not tonight.
She spills stories, shares thoughts, asks questions she doesn't always expect answers to. She is good at noticing little things, remembering them later, filing them away. Birthdays. Favorite candies. Pet names for everyone's pets. Small kindnesses that matter in ways nobody acknowledges but that matter, you notice, to her.
You stay quiet. You don't interrupt, don't comment. Not yet. You are learning. Learning that her small, reckless joy is fragile in ways she doesn't know yet. Learning the pattern of her heart before it starts to crack.
She talks to herself when she's alone, pretending the world is listening. "It'll be fine." And it always is. For now. You have watched these moments countless times. You see her shoulders slump, the faint tremble in her hands, the breath she tries not to take too loud. You never intervene. You only wait.
There is a mirror in the corner of the room. She catches herself in it, twirling just a little, smiling at the girl she sees reflected there. She doesn't know that the reflection is brighter than the room. She doesn't know that you see it too. The light in her eyes almost makes you ache, a tender, sharp kind of ache. You want to protect it, to treasure it, to keep it safe, but not yet. Not while she is still learning to dance through life unafraid.
She leaves sticky notes for herself on her desk. She laughs at the corny ones. "I sound like a grandma," she mutters. But she keeps them anyway. She writes in her diary about the things the world around her refuses to notice. You notice all of it. Every word. Every scribble. Every moment she thinks she is unseen.
She has a friend over. They argue over trivialities, laughing so hard it hurts. She shouts a little, stomping her feet, wild, untamed. And then she collapses into giggles, face buried in her hands. You want to speak, to comfort, but you don't. She is alive in her chaos, and you are learning that life sometimes comes loud, unfiltered, and messy, and it's breathtaking to witness.
She sometimes catches herself staring out the window at night, lost in thought. You know what she is thinking even before she says it. She imagines possibilities, worlds, conversations that might never happen. She writes them down sometimes, in little notebooks, folded, hidden, treasured. You read them quietly in your mind, memorizing. You never touch. You never take. You just hold.
Her laughter echoes through the apartment at odd hours, shrill and sweet. You notice how her energy fills every corner of the room, and you realize she has no idea how extraordinary she is. How alive, how fearless, how unguarded she remains even in a world that could be cruel.
"She's unstoppable," you whisper one night, quietly, to the darkness. She doesn't hear you. Not yet. But it's true. You think it to yourself so she will not feel the need to hear it aloud. You are just an observer.
She cries sometimes. Quiet, almost polite ones, tears that she doesn't think anyone will notice. You notice. You know them all. You know the corners of her eyes, the subtle quiver of her lips, the way her chest hitches slightly with each exhale. And you do nothing. Because love, quiet love, sometimes waits silently for her to finish before it steps forward.
You almost speak the first time she whispers to herself in despair. "I'm not good enough," she says, almost laughing at the absurdity, almost expecting the walls to answer her. You think of answering, correcting, comforting, but you stay silent. You learn to love the moments that are hers alone. You wait.
Her diary entries grow longer, filled with self-reflections and dreams she doesn't yet dare share. You memorize phrases, rhythms, the way she punctuates her own sentences. You follow her mind as closely as a shadow follows light, silent and steady.
Even her mistakes, her missteps, her awkward interactions, they are part of the light you are learning to love. You see her persistence in the tiny acts of bravery, the courage to laugh again after a small disappointment, the way she forgives the world almost too easily but never herself.
By the end of the first week, you observe her, you realize: she doesn't need you yet. She is complete in her light, and yet… you feel yourself drawn to her energy, pulled into the rhythm of her existence. You stay. You are quiet. You are patient. You are learning.
Because one day, that light will dim in ways she cannot anticipate, in ways no one else can prevent. And when it happens, when she stumbles and doubts, when she falters and fears she will not be enough, you will finally speak. You will finally step forward; but only then. Only when she is ready to hear.
For now, you are just a quiet admirer, holding your breath in the corners of her world, learning how to love someone so completely that you might not even exist in the same space.
To be continued...