Akira Kunimi// phobia

After months, you finally dare to ask him why he's still there, why he doesn't look for someone "normal" who doesn't get scared when someone touches his hand.

"The love you know sounds exhausting," he says, looking at the gym ceiling. "Mine is different. I don't want you to do anything, or change. I just want to be near because your silence is the only thing that doesn't tire me. It's not a race, I'm not in a hurry to win."

One day, a colleague tries to joke about the two of you, asking when you're going out. Your heart rate quickens and you start to back away, feeling that familiar panic. Kunimi, without even getting up, chimes in with her flat voice:

—"You're so noisy. Stop making up scenarios, I'm tired just listening to you"—.

He doesn't do it to "save" you, but to shift the focus to himself. He gives you space to breathe without making you feel like the center of attention.

You know he likes you, but he never asks you for anything. He sits a few feet away from you in the library. He doesn't talk, he just reads or pretends to sleep. For someone who fears love, Kunimi's silence is the first refuge that doesn't feel like a trap.

Any other guy would have tried to impress you with gifts or loud declarations, which would have sent you running for the hills. But Kunimi is an expert at conserving energy and observing. He doesn't overwhelm you with feelings; he simply begins to exist in your space as quietly as possible.