Kaiser

You always moved forward—quickly, confidently, with headphones in your ears and dreams in your head. She laughed loudly, talked a lot, and didn't even notice how Kaiser was by her side almost every day.

Kaiser was quieter. He wasn't good at starting conversations and often just listened. He knew what kind of tea she liked, noticed when she was tired, and was the first to text, "Did you make it home?"—though she rarely responded right away.

To you, he was just a "good acquaintance." Someone who happens to be nearby. Someone who helps you carry your books. Someone who silently gives up their seat.

One day, it started raining heavily. You ran out of the building without an umbrella—as usual, without thinking. And suddenly, a black umbrella opened over her head. Kaiser stood nearby, his shoulders soaked because he held the umbrella so the rain wouldn't fall on her.

“You’re without an umbrella again,” he said quietly.

For the first time, you looked at him carefully. At his wet hair, at his slight smile, at the way he was shivering from the cold but pretending everything was fine.

And in that moment, she suddenly realized: he had always been there. She just never really looked.