...***...

That afternoon, the rain fell softly, like a secret whispered against the ancient walls of the city. It wasn’t the kind of rain that drenched everything in its path - just enough to darken the hem of a shirt, enough to let a quiet melancholy seep into people’s hearts.

In a little coffee shop tucked into a forgotten corner of the street, where time seemed to pause amidst the haze of jazz and the warm breath of aged wood, two boys sat facing each other.

They didn’t talk much. Words were unnecessary when glances had already begun their secret dialogue. Sometimes, almost unconsciously, their eyes found each other - like two hidden streams that had, against all odds, met underground.

The boy in the white shirt, serene as the surface of a still lake, tilted his head ever so slightly whenever their gazes touched. The other boy, lips curved in a quiet, knowing smile, cradled his coffee cup with both hands as if holding something fragile, precious.

No one remembers who broke the silence first. Perhaps it was a glance that lingered too long. Perhaps it was a small question about the book resting on the table. Or maybe, it was nothing more than the way presence itself sometimes fits so perfectly - like a chair that had always been waiting for someone, especially on a rainy day.

They began like that. Quietly. Slowly. The way spring arrives, without noise, without ceremony - yet every blossom is enough to stir a restless heart.

As days passed, chance meetings wove themselves into deliberate encounters. They didn’t need to say words like "miss" or "love". A light brush of a shoulder on a narrow path was enough. Splitting a strawberry tart in two was enough. A short message at the end of the day was enough.

Their love was like a cup of tea on a winter afternoon - unassuming, unhurried, not blazing with fire but warming to the core. They taught each other gentleness not through explanations, but through presence. They weren’t together to fill silence, but to watch quietly, patiently as the other grew, changed, and still remained.

One day, when the wind carried sickness into one of them, the other showed up unannounced, carrying a bag of hot porridge, his hands still scented faintly of rain. They sat side by side without turning on the TV, without reaching for music. Only the hush of rain outside, and the rhythm of calm, drowsy breathing within.

"What do you think.. love is?" The ill one whispered, eyes half-closed, voice nearly lost in the patter of rain.

The other smiled, gently pulling the blanket higher. "Love is when you ask me that and I realize I don’t need an answer."

Their love had no need for proofs. No grand gestures, no loud proclamations, no glossy photographs for the world to see. It was like the first rain of the season, like sunlight slipping quietly through a veil of cloud.. subtle, delicate, yet steady enough to warm a waiting heart.

Seasons shifted. The wind began carrying the scent of wildflowers, and still, they walked old streets together, read books together, let the slow afternoons stretch around them like an embrace. Their handclasps were not hidden, yet neither were they flaunted. They only needed each other to understand.. that was enough.

No one knows when they truly fell in love. There was no marked beginning, no confession under the stars, no anniversary circled in red. Perhaps the greatest love is the kind that doesn’t need to say "I love you," and yet, at every moment, the heart feels completely held.

The world may spin. People may change, betray, leave, or forget. But somewhere, in a quiet corner of life, two hearts choose each other for no reason at all. Just because in their togetherness, everything suddenly becomes still. Everything suddenly feels right.

And perhaps, that is love.

...***...

The afternoon sun spilled into the deserted hallway like a slow, golden stream. On the third floor, silence stretched thin, broken only by the groaning of the ceiling fan and the occasional scrape of dry leaves across the schoolyard below.

He stood by the window, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, gaze unfocused, far away. The light poured down on his shoulders, carving out a long shadow across the tiled floor like someone sitting, waiting, wordless, unspoken.

Then came footsteps, light and familiar, brushing against the silence. He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

"You stand like this.. people might think you’re waiting for someone."

That voice always warm, like the March sun.. soft, stubborn, and persistently bright.

He exhaled quietly.

"Do you think you’re special?"

"Not special. Just.. I got here before anyone else."

"Annoying."

"Yeah, I’m annoying. But you still don’t leave. You still stay here. So maybe.. you don’t hate me that much, do you?"

He turned, his sharp glance cutting the air but never quite piercing through. Because the other boy was still smiling, that quiet, unshaken smile like nothing could break him.

Their story had no clear beginning. No one could say when the first glance lingered too long. All they knew was, at some point, words began to slip through, one after another.

"Your shirt’s wrinkled. Let me iron it."

"Your tie’s a little off - hold still, I’ll fix it."

"Your forehead’s sweaty. Wipe it, will you?"

"It’s noon. Let’s eat together."

"Do you have a lover?"

"..If not, can I be?"

At first, he ignored it. His eyes wandered, his feet kept walking. But gradually, his steps slowed. Sometimes, he even stopped, just to wait for the next sentence.

. . .

If love is a sin

Then let me be punished.

Trapped inside your eyes,

Never wishing to leave.

Once, that poem appeared on a test paper. No name signed, but the handwriting was too familiar to mistake.

He crumpled the paper. Yet when he left, his hand still slipped it into his pocket.

"Sick."

"I don’t want to cure the sickness of loving you."

. . .

When they stood side by side, there was always a gap between them - thin as morning mist. Touch it, and it vanished. Yet enough to make the heart ache cold. And he was always the one to hold the distance.. proud, stubborn, refusing to yield. His mouth said no, but his feet betrayed him, carrying him closer.

"Stop saying those strange things."

"Why?"

"No one likes to hear them."

"Then why are you still here?"

His lips tightened. The afternoon wind ruffled his hair. He didn’t answer. His eyes only drifted to the can of cool water in the other’s hand - the one always waiting, opened for him every day.

. . .

One rainy evening, he missed the last bus. The station stood empty, the wind biting at his fingers.

"No umbrella?" The familiar voice slipped through the storm, uninvited but unsurprising.

"It’s none of your business."

"Maybe. But you are my business."

"Don’t say things like that out here."

"Then.. want to go somewhere private?"

"Shut up!"

The other boy laughed softly, then draped a coat over his shoulders. No asking, no hesitation. The cold eased. His heart stumbled.

. . .

You keep retreating,

And I keep moving forward.

Until we meet,

At the center of my heart.

He never said sweet words. He never sent the first message. Never took pictures together. But when the other boy was sick, he was the one who brought medicine - claiming, "Mom told me." Yet he knew exactly which pills to buy, which fever medicine worked. He placed the glass of water down, not asking, not staying, just quietly there.

The sick boy laughed hoarsely.

"You care about me, right?"

"No. Just.. you get sick too often. It’s annoying."

"Then can I come over tomorrow?"

"It depends."

"Yeah. Depends. But.. I already like you. What can I do?"

The words kept flowing. He never answered. But when the other boy left, he always looked back. Just once. Just briefly. But enough to set the one left behind aflame.

One day, they skipped school and wandered to the small bridge at the edge of town. Sunlight sifted through the trees, scattering silver dust across their backs.

The other stopped midway, turning.

"Hey."

"What?"

"If you don’t like me.. then don’t look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"As if.. you’re waiting for me to kiss you."

He froze, ears burning red.

"Are you insane?!"

"Yeah. Insane because of you."

"..."

"So.. can I kiss you?"

"No."

"But no doesn’t mean no."

He kicked his shin. "Get lost!"

But when he turned away, his fingers brushed his lips. As if they burned though no one had touched them.

. . .

Keep talking.

You still don’t believe.

Then I’ll keep talking

For the rest of my life,

Until you do.

They hadn’t kissed. Hadn’t held hands. Hadn’t named whatever this was.

It was just every morning, his steps slowed when he heard the familiar rhythm of shoes behind him. It was just every time his name was called, he answered with silence, but the corner of his lips betrayed him. It was just on rainy days, his bag always carried an extra umbrella.

It was just-

Every night, a message:

"Good night. Dream of me."

And though he never replied, he read it. Smiled faintly. Pressed the phone against his chest, his heart racing, quick and fierce, like the first winds of a new season.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t need an "I love you too."

Sometimes, it’s enough to just stay, and let the other keep talking.