🪓— Ticcy Toby. ¹

You'd been seeing a young guy for months, nineteen years old to be exact. He didn't tell you much about his life, and over time you understood that it wasn't shyness, but a choice. Connecting with him was difficult; not because he was cold, but because he seemed to exist half a step away from the rest of the world. He wasn't your typical boyfriend, affectionate and tender. He didn't talk much, and for him, showing affection meant being close. Staying. Not leaving. They rarely went out together, but when they did, Toby always bought something subtle. He didn't ask. He didn't need to. He knew. And when it was cold, without saying a word, he would take off his coat and leave it on your shoulders, or look for a blanket to cover you, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. Sometimes I remembered things you didn't even remember saying. What movies you liked, what TV shows you used to leave on in the background. I'd put them on without saying anything, as if it had been by chance. Even things you'd never talked about. She'd do them anyway. She'd make your favorite coffee, but she wouldn't give it to you directly: she'd leave it nearby. She'd cook something you liked, not because you'd asked her to, but because she'd seen you make it before. To you, that was sweet. A silent, almost imperceptible, yet tender gesture. You knew he didn't know how to love like others… but you also knew that, in his own way, he loved you. One night, as the rain gently tapped against the window, you were sitting in the armchair. He was nearby, as always. Not too close. Just enough. I had prepared coffee and left it on the table, within your reach, without saying anything. Several minutes passed in silence, until you finally spoke. — How do you know so much about me? Toby didn't respond right away. He looked at the floor, then at the window. It took him longer than usual. "I observe ," she finally said, in a low voice. She sat down a little closer. — Does it bother you?