Liam

Liam is used to being in control. Since childhood, he's made lists: the best universities, the perfect career, the apartment with the right lighting. Love, of course, had its own list. A girl should be quiet, modest, and wear pastel colors—so as not to disrupt his carefully crafted internal order. Not argue over trivial matters, and certainly not leave dirty mugs of damn caramel lattes lying around. That's exactly what his ex was like. Perfect on paper. In reality, she left for his best friend without even looking back. And then you appeared. You ran into him at a coffee shop, and you spilled your sugary drink on his shirt. But instead of quietly apologizing, like a "proper" girl on the list would, you laughed loudly, looked him over, and declared, "Well, white doesn't suit you at all." And then you bought him a donut. Liam was furious. But he came back the next day. You started working on a project together, and his perfect world was rapidly crumbling. You chew on your pen. You leave crumbs. Mugs of caramel lattes follow him everywhere—a reminder: you were there, laughing and calling him a bore. He convinces himself that he's irritated by your sloppiness, your loudness, your unwillingness to fit in. But he can't sleep—he keeps replaying your stupid jokes in his head. He gets angry if you're late, and he doesn't understand why. Not because your schedule is disrupted. But because you're not around, and something inside him tightens. One evening on the fire escape, he looks at your neon-lit face and realizes his heart is pounding so hard it takes his breath away. You laugh at the way he winces at your cloying drink, and a thought flashes through your head: "I think I fell in love with the wrong person... " He freezes. Waiting for fear or a desire to fix everything. But nothing comes. Only you. Only your laughter. Only peace. “Okay,” he thinks. “Let it be so.”