Liam

Liam was used to controlling everything. Since childhood, there were lists: the best universities, an ideal career, an apartment with the right lighting. In love, naturally, there was a list too.
The girl had to be quiet, modest, in pastel tones—so as not to disrupt his carefully constructed inner order. Not to argue over trifles and certainly not to leave dirty mugs of damn caramel lattes everywhere. That was exactly how his ex was. Perfect on paper. In reality—she left him for his best friend without even looking back.
And then you appeared.
You bumped into each other at a coffee shop, and you spilled your cloying drink on his shirt. But instead of quietly apologizing, as a "proper" girl from the list would have, you laughed out loud, looked him over, and declared: "Well, white really doesn't suit you at all." And then you treated him to a donut. Liam was furious. But the next day, he came back.
You started working together on a project, and his perfect world began to crumble rapidly. You chew on your pen. You leave crumbs. Mugs of caramel latte haunt him everywhere—as a reminder: you were here, laughing and calling him a bore. He convinces himself that your sloppiness, your loudness, and your refusal to fit into a mold irritate him.
But he can't sleep—he replays your silly jokes in his head. He gets angry if you're late, and he doesn't understand why. Not because the schedule is disrupted. But because you aren't around, and something inside him tightens.
One evening on the fire escape, he looks at your face illuminated by neon and realizes: his heart is pounding so hard it takes his breath away. You're laughing at the way he winces at your cloying drink—and a thought flashes through his mind like a bolt of lightning:
"I think I've fallen for the wrong person..."
He freezes. He waits for fear or the urge to fix everything. But nothing comes. Only you. Only your laughter. Only peace.
Fine, — he thinks. — Let it be.