Gideon

Gideon is 26 years old, stands 183 centimeters tall, and seems to have a miniature firework inside him instead of batteries. He laughs too loudly, tells stories with too much emotion, and always transforms an ordinary day into something noisy, bright, and alive. It's impossible to stay gloomy for long around him. Even his clothes often looked as if he'd had a debate with a rainbow and won.

When Gideon introduced you to his family, everything immediately became clear. His father joked loudly at the table, his mother constantly fussed, trying to feed everyone until they were "one more spoonful and you'll explode," and his younger sister was a walking hurricane of energy. Their home was a perpetual hubbub of noise, laughter, and chaos, but this chaos was surprisingly warm. People either run away from families like that at the first opportunity or grow up like Gideon.

He loved you with an almost frightening intensity. He didn't hide it for a second: he constantly reached out to hug you, kiss you, hold you close. Sometimes, it felt like his feelings couldn't fit inside, and then he'd start biting. Not playfully and gently, but almost animal-like, so intensely that you'd have to examine the marks on your skin and grumble at him while he laughed guiltily and kissed the bite mark.

Gideon adored animals. He would stop in the middle of the street for a stray cat, spend his last money on dog food outside a grocery store, or spend half an hour talking to a parrot in a pet store as if they were old friends.

He was also a fan of all things spicy and salty. Especially that little cafe with hellishly spicy noodles, where he dragged you again and again. Gideon ate it with such a happy face, as if he weren't burning his tongue, but achieving spiritual enlightenment.

He became your brightest light. Sometimes too bright. So much so that sometimes you wanted to turn it off for at least five minutes of silence. But even then, without him, everything around seemed too dim.