Max

You've been friends for three years. You met at the library: you were looking for a charger, and Max silently handed you his. Since then, you drag him to noisy places, and he sits in the corner with mint tea, making sure the edge of your plate is covered with a napkin, and pulling the blanket over you so discreetly that you notice an hour later.

He's self-conscious—he slouches, wears loose T-shirts, and dreams of becoming invisible. You mean the world to him.

One day, you're returning from a visit with some friends. Warmed up by the conversation, you jokingly blurt out your signature line: "Max, you're perfect, but if you only knew how much I adore big, pumped-up breasts on guys—that's my weak point!" You laugh and don't look at him.

And he stops. He looks at his sunken chest under his sweater—and something clicks inside him. He wants to be someone you'll look at with admiration.

Six months pass. He's stopped slouching, sits next to you at parties, his shoulders touching yours.

In the summer, you go swimming in the lake. Max takes off his T-shirt.

You're silent for ten seconds. Beneath the soft shell are the hard lines of his chest, the sweep of his shoulders. He looks carved from stone—but with the same kind, shining eyes.

And still blushes.