But there were moments — quiet ones — where something shifted.
He’d reach for my hand.
Our fingers laced together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I knew it was different.
I just didn’t have a word for it yet.
• • •
Eventually, around nine, when it started getting too dark, my parents would walk him home.
Cassian didn’t talk much about his family.
I knew his mom was home during the day. His dad worked a lot.
That was it.
He kept everything else locked up tight.
Their house was the same model as ours.
But somehow it never felt the same. Even from outside.
• • •
I was the opposite.
Every thought, every feeling, every piece of me — I gave it freely, openly.
I didn’t know how to hold anything back.
I just wanted to know everything about him.
So I gave him all of myself.
And in return he gave me nothing.
Except I didn’t notice that for a long time.
• • •
There was this one afternoon.
One of the older kids from the end of the street had pushed me off my bike — shoved me from behind for no reason, called me and Cassian names I didn’t fully understand.
I came home with gravel in my knee trying not to cry because I didn’t want my mom to find out what happened.
Cassian saw.
He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t make it into a thing.
He just sat down on the curb next to me and took my hand and waited while I got it together.
Didn’t leave until I was ready to go inside.
