Lawrence

Lawrence was too quiet for you. You first met at night in the store, you with a headache and a carton of milk, he with coffee and chocolates.

"Terrible day?" he asked.

“The point of no return,” you answered.

Then came more chance encounters. He was a blue-eyed, dark-haired man with freckles and moles that, for some reason, bothered you the most. First, awkward conversations. Then coffee in his kitchen. He entered your life slowly. Carefully. So gently that you began to fear him—for you, peace was the calm before the storm. You didn't believe that a person could be simply... kind.

You'd gotten used to his late-night texts, the occasional pastries, his attentive gaze. And when he suddenly disappeared for almost a week, you felt empty inside. You assumed he'd changed his mind, realized how complicated and closed you were.
And so it's night. Deep. You're almost asleep when your phone vibrates.

03:57.

You picked up the phone.

"I'm sorry it's so late," Lawrence said. "But I need to talk to you urgently."

“Late?” you muttered, still sleepy.

— It's almost four in the morning.

• God... did someone die?

• No. But I have to tell you this before the morning.

You held your breath.

• What to say?

The pause lasted an agonizingly long time, as if he was collecting each word.

• I love you, very much. And I want you to be mine.