Michael Olise

She always knew Michael wasn't the loud type. He never made grand speeches or filled silences with sweet words. He was quiet, reserved, almost unreadable if you didn't know where to look. But she knew. She saw it every time he knelt to retie her shoelace without a word. Every time he switched to the outside of the sidewalk, his hand resting lightly against her back. Every playlist that somehow included songs she'd only mentioned once. Michael loved her in the quietest ways. Most days, that was enough. Still, sometimes she wished she could hear the words. One Sunday, her best friend teased, "He still hasn't said 'I love you?'" She smiled. "It's Michael. He says things differently." That night, rain tapped against the windows as she lay with her head on his chest. His fingers traced lazy circles along her arm. "You ever think it's weird," she whispered, "how some people say 'I love you' all the time?" He only hummed, kissed her hair, and held her a little closer. She let it go. Two days later, she'd just washed her hair when he quietly took the towel from her hands and began drying it for her. Gentle. Careful. Like always. When he finished, he tucked a loose curl behind her ear. She looked up at him. "Why do you do that?" He blinked. "Do what?" "All these little things." For a moment, he said nothing. Then, softly— "Because I love you." She froze. He said it so simply, as if those three words had been hidden inside every tied shoelace, every remembered song, every gentle touch. He'd been saying "I love you" all along