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I surely hope Andrew and I will grow old on one pillow.

A traditional blessing or toast, used in Armenian culture, to wish a couple a long and harmonious marriage is "Մեկ բարձի վրա ծերանաք / Mek bardzi vra tseranaq" / "May you grow old on one pillow"; it is a wish that two lives become so entwined, they are forever inseparable. This phrase enchants me with its visual charm, for it vividly conjures an image of perfect unity — two souls resting each night on the same pillow, side by side, breathing dreams and sharing whispered secrets until the end of their days.

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Extras

Theodore Hall (Theo) - 18 years old

Violet Woods (Vi) - 16 years old

Benjamin Newman (Ben) - 16 years old

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Characters

Ralph aka Konstantine (Daddy) - 42 years old

Andrew (Dadda) - 42 years old

Elliot (El) - 18 years old

Yazmin (Yaz) - 16 years old

Ellias (Ellie) - 16 years old

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I Saw the TV Glow (Andrew's Version)

The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft hum of the fridge and the faint clinking of Andrew’s spoon against his coffee mug. He stared into the dark liquid, swirling it absentmindedly, his mind far from the warm, lived-in space of their home. The faint flicker of the television caught his eye. It was on, but muted—a mistake, probably left running by one of the kids.

Andrew got up, intending to turn it off, but stopped when the glow shifted. His reflection faded, replaced by an image that made his breath hitch.

On the screen was a version of him he hadn’t thought about in years: younger, sharper, his shoulders held with the tension of expectation. He was standing on the sprawling marble staircase of his parents’ mansion, a place that had always felt more like a museum than a home. Around him, there were flashes of the life his family had planned for him—dinners with faceless business partners, a smiling woman with perfect hair and a diamond ring on her finger, and an empty office at his father’s oil company, pristine and soulless.

The scenes were eerily quiet, as if the world itself was holding its breath. He watched as the younger Andrew moved through these moments mechanically—polite smiles, firm handshakes, perfectly rehearsed answers to hollow questions.

The screen flickered, and Andrew found himself staring at a long dining table in the center of the mansion’s grand hall. It was set for twelve, but only two seats were filled—his father at the head, stern and silent, and his mother, gracefully pouring wine into her glass. A younger Andrew sat there too, staring at his untouched plate. He remembered that table vividly. He had sat there countless times, under the weight of his family’s legacy, the suffocating expectations that dictated every step of his life.

He could’ve had all of it—the wealth, the connections, the certainty of a secure future. A life of privilege, polished to perfection but empty in its echoes.

The screen shifted again.

Now he was walking through a bustling marketplace, his face alight with wonder. A small bowl of something warm and fragrant was in his hand as he gestured animatedly at the vendor, trying to learn the story behind the recipe. Another flash, and he was hiking through lush, green hills, a notebook filled with sketches and tasting notes in his pack. He was free, untethered, living a life dictated only by his curiosity and hunger for the world.

Andrew’s chest tightened. That was the life he’d dreamed of—the life he had almost chased after. He could have wandered the globe, immersing himself in flavors and stories, filling his journals with the taste of every culture he could find.

But the screen didn’t stop there.

It shifted again, this time showing their home. The kitchen table came into view, not the cold, cavernous dining table of his childhood but the scratched and well-loved one in front of him now. At it sat Yaz and Ellias, elbows deep in flour as they argued about whose cookies would turn out better. Elliot leaned against the counter, flipping through a book, half-listening but still chiming in when prompted. And there he was—Andrew himself—laughing so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes.

The scene shifted once more, to Andrew sitting cross-legged on the couch, surrounded by his children as he read from one of their favorite books. Ralph walked in, his tie loosened after a long day, and leaned against the doorframe, watching the scene with a soft smile.

Andrew’s breath hitched. His younger self faded from the screen, replaced by his present life in all its imperfect, chaotic glory. And then, for a moment, the screen showed him standing in the middle of his parents’ mansion again. The Andrew on the screen reached out and turned off the lights before stepping outside.

The glow of the TV faded, leaving only Andrew’s reflection.

For a long moment, he sat in silence, letting the weight of the images settle. He had seen the TV glow, had glimpsed the life he could have had—the wealth, the freedom, the endless possibilities. But he had chosen this life instead: the messy, noisy, loving life they had built together.

It wasn’t easy. There were days when he wondered what might have been if he had taken a different path. But then there were moments like this—quiet, unassuming moments when he looked around at the home they had created, the family they had nurtured, and felt a deep, unwavering certainty.

He could have had an empty mansion. Instead, he had this—a home filled with laughter, love, and the chaos of three growing children. And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Andrew smiled faintly, reaching for the remote to turn off the TV. He glanced out the window, where the kids were playing in the yard, their voices carrying through the open air.

He set his coffee down and joined them, stepping into the life he had chosen—the one he had built, not by chance, but by love.

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I Saw the TV Glow (Ralph's Version)

The room was dimly lit, a soft hum from the television filling the silence as Ralph sat alone on the couch. The glow of the screen danced across his face, pulling him into a scene he didn’t recognize at first. The image wasn’t from a movie or a show. It was him—or rather, a version of him he hadn’t seen in years.

On the screen, Ralph was younger, his body lean and powerful, exuding the confidence of someone who knew his place in the world. He was on the football field, the crowd roaring in the background as he threw a perfect spiral down the field. His teammates surrounded him, their cheers echoing as they hoisted him up on their shoulders. The jersey clung to him, bold letters spelling out the name “VLEUGELS” across his back, the number 10 shining bright under the stadium lights.

The scene shifted. Now he was in a pool, cutting through the water with the precision of a machine. He touched the wall at the end of the race, and the crowd erupted. A gold medal hung around his neck in the next frame, cameras flashing as he stood on a podium, his smile wide and triumphant.

He couldn’t look away. This was the Ralph who had been destined for greatness—the Ralph everyone had expected to take on the world as a star athlete. A name etched into history books. A career filled with accolades and applause.

But that wasn’t the Ralph sitting on the couch.

This Ralph was in his mid-thirties, his body still strong but not sculpted for athleticism anymore. His hands weren’t calloused from gripping a football or slicing through water but from hours of reviewing blueprints and consulting on sustainability projects. He wasn’t the quarterback, the swimmer, or the star anymore. He was something different. Something quieter.

The screen flickered again, showing him on stage at a press conference, accepting an award for innovation in green construction. The crowd applauded politely, but the noise was muted compared to the stadium roars he once knew. He was dressed in a suit, polished and professional, his hair neatly combed back. He looked proud but... restrained. As if this version of himself still carried the weight of what could have been.

The glow of the TV seemed to ask him a question he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer. Would you trade it?

Ralph leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the screen. His mind wandered to his youth, to the countless hours spent practicing on the field and in the pool, to the scholarships and the opportunities laid out before him. He had loved those moments, the thrill of the game, the camaraderie of his teammates, the sense of invincibility that came with being young and talented.

But then he thought of something else. Of someone else.

The scene on the screen changed again, but this time it wasn’t about fame or glory. It was simpler. It was a memory. Andrew, sitting cross-legged on the floor of their tiny apartment, laughing as he tried to fix their wobbly coffee table. Ralph had just come home from a long day at work, tired but content. Andrew looked up, his eyes sparkling, and said, “Dinner’s almost ready. Elliot helped me pick the vegetables.”

Ralph smiled faintly. That was the life he had chosen—the life he had built. Not one of stadium lights and gold medals but one of warmth, laughter, and love. A life where he had traded trophies for the weight of a sleeping child in his arms, where his victories were measured not in applause but in the quiet moments that made up his family’s world.

He reached for the remote, his hand hovering over the power button as he stared at the younger version of himself still glowing on the screen. I could have been you, he thought. But you could never be me.

He turned off the TV. The room fell into darkness, the hum of the screen replaced by the distant sounds of the city outside. Ralph leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes as he let the silence wrap around him.

He had seen the TV glow. He had seen what could have been.

And he didn’t regret turning it off.

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Paint

The crack in the ceiling had been there since the first night they moved in—a jagged line, thin and unassuming, cutting through the plaster like the start of a question they never had time to answer. Andrew noticed it immediately, as he was seated on the couch, his voice soft but insistent.

“You’ll fix it, right?” he asked.

Ralph, preoccupied with unpacking and a looming essay deadline, had only hummed in response, the way you do when you’re listening but not really. Days turned into weeks, the crack remained, and the quiet became their language.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

The apartment grew cluttered with their separate lives. Ralph’s textbooks and sketches spilled over the dining table, while Andrew’s drafts and manuscripts formed precarious towers in every corner. The kitchen sink always seemed to hold an unfinished story of its own—plates crusted with the remnants of meals they hadn’t shared, mugs stained with coffee brewed in solitude.

They passed each other like strangers at times, brushing shoulders in the hallway, their words brief and transactional: Did you pay the water bill? Did you turn off the tap? Small talk stretched over a widening distance.

Andrew, always the more restless of the two, stopped asking about the crack.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

When he left, there were no slammed doors, no accusations thrown like knives. Just the sound of his chair scraping the floor, the shuffle of his shoes, the soft click of the lock behind him.

Ralph looked up from his laptop, the absence wrapping itself around him like a cold draft. The silence was heavier than the noise had ever been.

He glanced at the ceiling, his chest tightening as he noticed the crack—sharper now, more jagged. It almost seemed alive, as if it had grown with the tension in the room, with the words they’d left unsaid.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Ralph climbed the ladder the next day, armed with plaster and paint.

I paint the ceiling so that nobody knows.

I cover it slow, cover it slow.

The brush moved rhythmically, the soft strokes drowning out the storm raging in his mind. Each pass of the paint felt like a kind of prayer, a ritual to quiet the chaos.

Andrew had been gone for four days now. Ralph hadn’t called, hadn’t texted. Not out of anger, but something else—something like faith.

Faith that Andrew would come back.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

They had known each other since middle school, their lives intertwined like vines that sometimes grew in opposite directions. There were years when they didn’t speak, years when they became strangers to each other. And then, the party.

Ralph hadn’t expected to see him there, hadn’t expected the flood of old memories to hit him like that. But Andrew had smiled—just a small, hesitant thing—and it was enough. They’d fallen back into each other so easily, like they’d never been apart.

That was the thing about them. They always came back.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

When Andrew returned, it was late. He stood in the doorway, his coat draped over one arm, his eyes tracing the room before finally landing on Ralph.

The apartment was still cluttered, but there was something different now.

The ceiling had been painted, its once-cracked surface now smooth, a pale blue that reminded Andrew of mornings when the sky felt endless.

“You painted it,” he said, his voice breaking the silence.

Ralph didn’t look up from his sketchbook. "It seemed to bother you."

Andrew stepped closer, his shoes quiet on the hardwood. “You didn’t have to…”

Ralph set the pencil down and met Andrew’s eyes for the first time in days. “I did.”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

They didn’t talk much that night. Ralph made tea, and they sat at the dining table, the quiet between them soft this time, no longer sharp-edged. Andrew’s fingers tapped against his mug, his gaze flicking upward toward the ceiling.

I need a love just like you gave.

“I needed to breathe,” Andrew said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ralph nodded, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “And now?”

Andrew looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time in days, Ralph felt like he wasn’t alone in the room. “I’m here.”

It wasn’t an apology, but it didn’t need to be. Some things you patched over, others you simply lived with.

Above them, the ceiling stood as a quiet witness, its cracks hidden beneath layers of paint.

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Drowning (Part 4)

Here are three things I know are true, unranked by order and importance:

Did you know that some people consider mundane acts, like washing dishes, a form of meditation? The repetition, the focus—it can quiet the noise in your mind.

I’m not religious, but I could make a religion out of how I imagined us doing dishes together.

Nostalgia is a liar, but it’s a kind one. It rewrites the ending so you can keep reading the story.

Some footnotes about these:

I used to imagine a life where we weren’t broken—where love wasn’t sharp edges and silences, but soft mornings and shared burdens.

We never got to the dishes. We didn’t get far enough to be anything ordinary.

Nostalgia doesn’t make the past hurt any less. It just makes it look prettier in the rearview mirror.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Andrew never knew how often I thought about the quiet moments we’d never have.

It was stupid. I knew it was stupid, but I couldn’t stop picturing it—us in a little apartment, the kind where the floors creaked and the windows fogged up in the winter. There’d be mismatched plates in the sink, the smell of coffee lingering in the air, and he’d hum while we washed the dishes.

I imagined the warmth of his arm brushing against mine, the sound of water running over porcelain, the way our laughter would fill the silence like a hymn.

I could’ve made a religion out of that. Out of him.

We were trying, but we weren’t trying no more.

The lyrics play in my mind like a memory I can’t let go of. Maybe that’s what we were—an almost-life, an almost-forever.

It’s funny, in a way. We burned so brightly that we never got to be ordinary. We never reached the quiet mornings, the grocery lists, the dishes stacked in the sink.

We were always chaos, always crashing waves, and I loved him for it. But I wanted more. I wanted the calm that came after.

I wanted everything.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

I’ve got a hole where nothing grows.

How little you know, how little you know.

Andrew never saw the parts of me I wanted to give him. The small, ordinary parts—the ones I thought might make us something permanent.

He looked at me like I was fire, and maybe I was, but fire doesn’t last. It burns bright, then it burns out.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Did you know that some people find peace in washing dishes?

I wanted peace with him. I wanted the kind of love that felt like coming home after a long day, like the warmth of sunlight on your skin, like the quiet rhythm of washing dishes together in a kitchen too small for two.

But we never made it there.

Andrew is across the hall, his guitar resting on his knee, his fingers moving over the strings like they’re an extension of himself.

I watch him, my chest tight with the weight of everything we could’ve been. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge the way I’m still here, still waiting for something I know I’ll never get.

But I can’t stop.

I can’t stop imagining the life we didn’t have, the mornings we didn’t share, the dishes we never washed.

Are you even listening?

I want to scream it, to shatter the silence between us, but the words stay trapped in my throat.

Andrew keeps playing, his head bowed, his focus on the melody I can’t hear.

I think about crossing the hall, about sitting beside him like I used to, about asking him if he ever thought about the little things—like dishes, like mornings, like forever.

But I don’t.

Because I know he wouldn’t answer.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

We were trying, but we weren’t trying no more.

The line loops in my head, soft and cruel, reminding me of how we let it slip away.

I still think about the life we could’ve had. The mundane, sacred things. The dishes. The mornings. The love that wasn’t loud or desperate, but steady and whole.

But Andrew doesn’t see me anymore. And I don’t think he ever imagined us the way I did.

I’ve got a hole where nothing grows.

How little you know, how little you know.

I wonder if he’s forgotten. If he even remembers the way we burned, the way we loved, the way I loved him enough to imagine a forever we never got to.

I watch him from across the hall, and it feels like a prayer, like a hymn, like a religion I can’t stop believing in.

But the only god here is silence.

And it doesn’t answer back.

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Drowning (Part 3)

Here are three things I know are true, unranked by order and importance:

Did you know that drowning victims sometimes cling to their rescuers so tightly that both sink? Survival instinct is messy.

I still don’t know how to love someone without swallowing them whole.

Letting go isn’t the same as moving on.

Some footnotes about these:

I think I’m the one drowning, but maybe I’ve just been pulling Ralph under with me.

Loving him wasn’t the problem. Not knowing how to stop—that’s what ruined us.

I don’t see him in the way people mean when they say they’re haunted. I really see him—leaning against walls, sitting on benches, burning holes through me from across crowded halls.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Ralph is here again, standing in the corner of the campus hall like a shadow I can’t shake.

He doesn’t hide the way he looks at me. He never has. His eyes burn like they’re demanding answers to questions I can’t even name.

I’m sitting on the floor, guitar across my lap, fingers stumbling over strings that don’t sing the way they used to. I can feel him watching me, and it’s all I can do to keep my head down, to pretend I’m fine.

I’m not.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

We were trying, but we weren’t trying no more.

The line spins in my head, over and over, soft and accusing. I think of the nights we spent together, his voice low, his laughter soft against the silence. I think of how easy it was to fall into him, how hard it was to stop.

I think about how I loved him like a tide—rushing in, consuming everything, pulling us both under when it became too much.

I still don’t know how to love someone without swallowing them whole.

I’ve got a hole where nothing grows.

How little you know, how little you know.

I wonder if Ralph understands what he did to me. What I did to him.

We were a wildfire burning too fast, too bright. He gave me everything—his favorite songs, his quiet thoughts, the way he said “I’ve never told anyone else” like it was a promise, a gift.

And I took it all. I took it because I didn’t know how to say no. I took it because I didn’t know how to stop loving him, even when it hurt.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Did you know drowning victims often fight their rescuers?

I think about that a lot. About how love can feel like drowning, about how we clung to each other so tightly we couldn’t breathe.

I think about the way Ralph looked at me when I told him I needed space, like I was breaking something sacred.

Maybe I was.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Are you even listening?

The words hang between us, unsaid but loud.

Ralph is across the hall, his eyes heavy on me, and I wonder if he can feel it too—the weight of everything we left unsaid, the ache of a love too big to carry.

I want to look up. I want to meet his gaze and tell him I’m sorry. I want to say, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to hurt myself.”

But I don’t.

Because I know what will happen. He’ll step closer, and I’ll let him in again, and we’ll drown all over.

We were trying, but we weren’t trying no more.

The line loops in my head like a song I can’t stop humming.

My fingers tremble on the strings, and the melody falters. It doesn’t matter. Ralph is still watching me, still waiting for something I can’t give him.

I’ve got a hole where nothing grows.

How little you know, how little you know.

I loved him. I still do. But love isn’t always enough, and I don’t know how to give him what he deserves without breaking him. Without breaking us both.

I still don’t know how to love someone without swallowing them whole.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Did you know drowning victims sometimes drag their rescuers under?

I think that’s what we were—two people clinging to each other in a sea too vast, too deep. Neither of us knowing how to let go.

Ralph is still there, across the hall, his gaze burning into me, and I can feel myself sinking all over again.

Are you even listening?

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

But I can’t look up. I can’t meet his eyes.

Because I know the truth. I’m not the one drowning. I’m the one who let go.

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Drowning (Part 2)

Here are three things I know are true, unranked by order and importance:

Did you know that the body can survive up to four minutes without oxygen before brain damage begins? Four minutes feels like forever when you’re watching someone drown.

Silence isn’t the absence of sound. It’s the weight of all the things you’ll never say.

Some ghosts aren’t dead—they’re just people you can’t let go of.

Some footnotes about these:

I’m not the one drowning. Not really. But I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe without him.

I don’t play Domestic Scene on my guitar anymore. It feels like betrayal to hear it without him.

Ralph isn’t a ghost, but he’s haunting me all the same. I see him in crowded halls, in quiet corners, in every song I can’t bring myself to finish.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Ralph is across the hall again. He leans against the wall, his bag clutched to his chest like it’s the only thing holding him together.

He’s not subtle. He never was. His gaze burns into me, sharp and unrelenting, and I feel it in my chest like an old wound that refuses to heal.

I keep my head down, my fingers moving over the guitar strings, plucking out a melody that doesn’t matter. It’s the only thing I can do to stop myself from looking back.

We were trying, but we weren’t trying no more.

The lyrics from Paint loop in my head, soft and accusing. It was our song once. We played it on nights when everything else felt too heavy, when the world outside was too much.

I wonder if he remembers. I wonder if he hears the melody in his mind the way I do, every time the silence gets too loud.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

I’ve got a hole where nothing grows.

How little you know, how little you know.

The seasons have changed, but some part of me is still trapped in winter. In the moment he told me about Domestic Scene, his voice soft and trembling like he was giving me something sacred.

“It’s my favorite,” he’d said, his eyes searching mine for something I couldn’t name.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to hold what he was offering without breaking it, so I just smiled.

That was my first mistake.

Now, I feel the weight of what I never said pressing against my chest. I want to tell him I understood. I want to tell him I loved him in a way I couldn’t put into words, in a way that scared me.

But it’s too late.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Did you know the body can survive without oxygen for four minutes?

I think about that sometimes. Four minutes isn’t long, but it’s long enough to lose someone. Long enough to regret everything you didn’t say.

Ralph looks at me like he’s drowning, and I wonder if he knows I feel the same way.

Are you even listening?

The words echo in my head, sharp and desperate, but I don’t look up. I can’t.

Because if I meet his eyes, I’ll crumble. I’ll cross the hall, sit beside him, and let him see every broken piece of me I’ve been trying to hide. And I’m not ready for that.

Not yet.

We were trying, but we weren’t trying no more.

I keep playing, the melody stumbling under my fingers. It’s not Paint. It’s not anything, really. Just noise. Just an excuse to keep my hands busy, to keep my mind from spiraling.

I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know if I can.

But I feel him watching me, his gaze heavy and unrelenting, and it’s all I can do to keep breathing.

I’ve got a hole where nothing grows.

How little you know, how little you know.

I never told Ralph that he saved me once. That his laugh, his voice, his quiet presence on the nights when the world felt too big—they kept me here.

And now, all I can do is sit here, strumming a guitar that doesn’t sound right anymore, pretending not to see him.

Because if I do, I’ll break. And if I break, I’ll take him down with me.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Did you know the body can survive without oxygen for four minutes?

Four minutes is all it takes to lose someone. Four minutes is all it takes to drown.

Ralph is across the hall, his eyes locked on me, and I can feel myself sinking.

Are you even listening?

I love you.

The words are there, just beneath the surface, but they don’t leave my lips.

Because drowning is quiet. And I’ve forgotten how to scream.

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Drowning

Here are four things I know are true, unranked by order and importance:

Did you know that drowning doesn’t look like drowning? There’s no thrashing, no screaming. It’s quiet. You don’t even know it’s happening until it’s too late.

Did you know that statistically, people fear to die by drowning? Not because of the pain, but because it’s silent. You can’t scream underwater.

A song can hold more truth than a confession.

The seasons change, but some parts of you stay frozen in time.

Some footnotes about these:

I am not drowning. Not in the way you think, anyway. But I keep sinking deeper every time I see you, every time you don’t see me.

I’m drowning. I can’t breathe. I keep reaching for air that doesn’t exist, and you don’t see me sinking.

I told you once that Domestic Scene by The Radio Dept was my favorite song. I never told anyone else. It wasn’t just a song—it was a lifeline.

Spring came and went. Summer is here now, warm and golden, but I can still feel winter pressing on my chest, stealing the breath from my lungs.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

It’s been two seasons since we broke. That’s how I measure time now: before Andrew, and after. Before, there was sunlight in every corner of this campus, and even the cold days felt warm. After, everything is muted, like the world’s colors have faded into grays.

I see him now across the hall. The campus is busy—students bustling between classes, laughing, hurrying, living their lives like nothing has ever hurt them. And there he is, sitting on the edge of the world with his guitar, strumming some half-finished melody that carries over the din.

Andrew’s always been like that. Self-contained. Untouchable. I wonder if he feels the way I do—if something gnaws at the edges of his silence, too. But he doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even glance my way.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

We were trying, but we were trying no more.

The line twists itself into my thoughts like a knife. It’s from Paint by The Paper Kites, a song we used to play on quiet nights when the world outside felt too sharp, too loud.

He loved that song, or at least I thought he did. He said it sounded like us—soft, melancholic, a little broken. I wonder if he remembers saying that. I wonder if he remembers anything at all.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

I’ve got a hole where nothing grows.

How little you know, how little you know.

Two seasons have passed since we unraveled. Winter into spring, spring into summer. But I’m still frozen, stuck in the moment we stopped trying, the moment he turned away.

I wonder if he ever thinks about the nights we spent tangled in quiet conversations, trading pieces of ourselves like secrets.

I wonder if he remembers the day I told him about Domestic Scene.

“It’s my favorite,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never told anyone else.”

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a moment I thought he understood. But he only nodded, his smile faint and far away, like he was already leaving.

Now, standing here, I feel the weight of what I never said: I love you. Isn’t that enough to make you stay?

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Drowning doesn’t look like drowning.

There’s no thrashing, no screaming. Just the quiet pull of the tide, dragging you under while the world goes on above you, oblivious.

I wonder if Andrew can feel it too—that slow, steady descent into darkness. Or if he’s already forgotten what it’s like to sink.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Are you even listening?

The words claw their way up my throat, sharp and desperate, but they never leave my lips. Instead, I just stand there, watching him like he’s the sun and I’m Icarus.

I want to walk over, to sit beside him like I used to, my shoulder brushing his. I want to tell him that I still think about the songs we shared, about the way his laugh sounded at midnight when the rest of the world was asleep.

But I know what he’ll do. He’ll smile that faint, faraway smile, the one that cuts deeper than any silence.

So I stay where I am, clutching my bag like it’s the only thing keeping me afloat.

We were trying, but we weren’t trying no more.

Andrew doesn’t look up. His fingers move over the strings, steady and sure, and I feel the weight of all the things I’ll never say pressing against my chest.

I’ve got a hole where nothing grows.

How little you know, how little you know.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Did you know that drowning doesn’t look like drowning?

I don’t think Andrew knows. Or maybe he does, and he doesn’t care.

The sunlight shifts, the noise in the hall grows louder, and Andrew keeps playing, oblivious to the way I’m breaking apart.

Are you even listening? I love you.

But he doesn’t look up, and I don’t move, and the world keeps spinning without us.

Drowning is quiet. You don’t even know it’s happening until it’s too late.

[pages-of-us]

Kindness That Goes A Long Way

Andrew stared at his watch, the cold November air biting at his skin. Ralph was late. He checked his phone for the hundredth time—still no messages.

They’d planned this date for weeks, a break from the chaos of assignments and their part-time jobs. Ralph rarely forgot things; his punctuality bordered on obsessive. But now, after forty-five minutes, Andrew was left standing on the corner outside their favorite café, fuming.

“Unbelievable,” Andrew muttered, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

Instead of heading back to his dorm, he decided to take a walk. The brisk air would cool his temper, and maybe the movement would give him something to focus on besides his disappointment.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

As he wandered near the edge of the town’s park, Andrew caught a familiar silhouette through the steamy windows of a small, nondescript restaurant.

“Ralph?”

There he was—Ralph, wearing an apron over his sweater, holding a tray piled with steaming dishes. Andrew stopped in his tracks, utterly bewildered.

Ralph wasn’t just there; he was working. Moving with practiced ease, he placed bowls on tables, bowed politely to a group of patrons, and even helped an elderly Korean woman in the back, carrying what looked like a giant stockpot.

Andrew ducked into the shadow of a lamppost, his anger melting into something else entirely. Awe. Ralph looked so at home here, his usually sharp, commanding presence softened by a quiet humility.

But when Ralph glanced up, their eyes locked.

Andrew froze.

Ralph paused mid-step, his expression a mixture of surprise and guilt. He said something to the elderly woman, who patted his arm with a warm smile before shooing him toward the door.

Ralph slipped out, tugging the apron over his head as he approached Andrew. His steps faltered when he saw Andrew’s expression—calm, but laced with a sharp question.

Andrew crossed his arms. “I take it this wasn’t some last-minute job you had to take for the extra cash?”

Ralph sighed, running a hand through his hair. “No, it’s not about the money.”

“Then what?” Andrew asked, his voice softer now but no less curious. “I waited for you. You could’ve told me, Ralph.”

Ralph nodded, guilt shadowing his face. “You’re right. I should’ve told you.” He hesitated, his words coming slowly. “The ahjumma who owns this place… she’s been like family to me.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow, his anger subsiding but his curiosity spiking.

“When I first got here—Yale, I mean—I was homesick. I missed my mom, my siblings, everything. One day, I came in here because it reminded me of home. I was sick, and she noticed. She brought me tea and kimchi jjigae and wouldn’t let me leave until I looked better. I guess I just kept coming back.” Ralph smiled faintly. “She’s been so kind to me—like a second Eomeoni. I’ve been helping her out whenever I can, especially when she’s short-staffed.”

Andrew’s heart softened as he listened. It wasn’t just Ralph’s words but the warmth in his tone—the quiet reverence when he spoke about the elderly woman.

“And you didn’t tell me because…”

“I thought you’d think it was silly. That I was only making excuses. But it’s not about that. She’s… important to me, Andrew.”

Andrew stared at him for a long moment, his irritation giving way to a deep, swelling affection.

“You’re an idiot,” Andrew said finally, his lips curving into a small smile. “But a lovable one.”

Ralph’s grin was sheepish. “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

“You better,” Andrew said, looping his arm through Ralph’s. “But first, you’re introducing me to her.”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

The elderly woman—whom Ralph called ahjumma with genuine fondness—greeted Andrew with a warm smile and a bowl of hot soup. She was smaller than Andrew had expected, her graying hair pulled back neatly, her face lined with years of hard work but radiating kindness.

“So, this is Andrew,” she said in Korean, her tone teasing. “You’re even more handsome than Ralph described.”

Andrew blinked in surprise before glancing at Ralph, who looked as though he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

“Ahjumma,” Ralph groaned.

Andrew laughed. “Thank you. And thank you for taking care of Ralph all this time. I’ve been wondering who’s responsible for keeping him grounded.”

That earned a delighted laugh from her, and from that moment on, Andrew was part of the family, too.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Years later, the Zanes visited the small restaurant as a family. The ahjumma was older now, her steps slower, but her smile just as radiant. Yaz and Ellias adored her instantly, calling her Halmeoni within minutes.

“Halmeoni, can we help you cook?” Yaz asked eagerly, bouncing on her toes.

Ellias nodded enthusiastically. “I can chop stuff!”

“Not with that enthusiasm, you won’t,” Ralph said, ruffling Ellias’ hair.

Elliot, ever the observer, helped set the table while Andrew chatted with her in his careful Korean.

“Your family,” the ahjumma said to Andrew, her voice thick with emotion, “is as wonderful as I always knew it would be.”

Andrew glanced at Ralph, who was wiping his hands on an apron, laughing at something Yaz said. His heart swelled, his love for Ralph growing anew as it always seemed to.

“It’s because he’s wonderful,” Andrew replied, his voice warm.

[pages-of-us]

while my guitar weeps

Ellias ran his fingers over the smooth varnished wood of the guitar, tracing the bumps and scratches with quiet reverence. It was a simple acoustic guitar, its surface adorned with a mosaic of faded stickers—some peeling at the edges. Among them was an unmistakable punk band logo, scrawled in a black and white design that was half-worn.

“Dadda,” Ellias said, glancing up from the guitar at Andrew, who was sitting cross-legged across from him on the floor. “This was yours, right? From college?”

Andrew smiled fondly, nodding. “That’s right, kiddo. My very first guitar. It’s been through a lot with me.”

Ellias’s eyes roamed over the body of the instrument, catching the faint carved letters near the base of the neck: AZ. “You even carved your initials in it.” he said, his voice tinged with awe.

Andrew chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “I was young and thought I was cooler than I actually was. Your Daddy gave me hell for that.”

“Daddy saw this?” Ellias asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, he more than saw it,” Andrew said with a grin. “He teased me about it for weeks. ‘You vandalized a perfectly good guitar!’ he’d say. But he still loved hearing me play it.”

Ellias plucked a string tentatively, the soft hum resonating between them. “It still sounds nice,” he said. “Why’d you stop playing it?”

Andrew’s gaze grew distant, and he shrugged lightly. “Life got busy, I suppose. When you, Yaz, and Elliot came along, I didn’t really have the time anymore. But I never wanted to let it go. It’s part of who I was.”

Ellias tilted his head. “You mean, before you were Dadda?”

“Exactly,” Andrew said, his voice warm. “Back then, it was just me and this guitar. It got me through a lot—stress, homesickness, even heartbreak. Playing it made me feel like I had control, like I could create something beautiful even when life felt messy.”

Ellias studied his father’s face, noting the nostalgia in his eyes. “Do you still play? Like… when we’re not around?”

Andrew smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in it. “Not much anymore. But that’s okay. This guitar’s had its time with me. Now…” He reached over, gently lifting the instrument and setting it in Ellias’s lap. “…I think it’s ready for someone else.”

Ellias stared down at the guitar, his jaw dropping slightly. “Wait—you mean me?!”

Andrew laughed. “Who else? You’ve been teaching yourself to play for months now. I’ve seen you sneaking into Elliot’s room to mess around with his keyboard. It’s about time you had a real instrument.”

Ellias’s hands hovered over the guitar, his fingers trembling slightly. “But it’s… it’s yours, Dadda. What if I mess it up?”

“Ellias,” Andrew said softly, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. “This guitar isn’t perfect. Look at it—scratches, dents, stickers that don’t even stick anymore. But that’s what makes it ours. It tells a story. And now, it’s your turn to add to it.”

Ellias swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as he ran his thumb along the strings. “I don’t even know if I’m good enough to play it.”

“You don’t have to be good,” Andrew said gently. “You just have to love it. Music isn’t about perfection, kiddo. It’s about what you feel when you play.”

Ellias nodded slowly, his grip on the guitar tightening. “I’ll take care of it, I promise.”

“I know you will,” Andrew said, his smile widening. “And hey, if you ever feel like carving something into it, maybe just ask me first this time?”

Ellias laughed, the sound breaking through the tender moment. “Deal.”

As Ellias strummed a soft, uncertain chord, Andrew leaned back against the couch, listening as the familiar hum of the guitar filled the room. It was imperfect, hesitant, but full of promise—a new chapter in the instrument’s long history.

For a moment, Andrew closed his eyes, memories of late nights in his college dorm flooding his mind. He remembered Ralph sitting beside him, humming softly as Andrew tried to nail a tricky riff. He remembered the way music had connected them, bridged the gaps between their worlds.

And now, as he watched Ellias, a new kind of joy blossomed in his chest. The guitar, battered and bruised as it was, had found a new home—a new heart to carry it forward.

[pages-of-us]

Map to One's Whereabout

Yaz sat cross-legged on the floor of theh twins’ bedroom, the frayed journal resting in her hands. Its cover was a collage of stickers, scratches, and the occasional coffee stain—each mark a testament to its well-loved and long-lived history. Her fingers lingered over the edges as she glanced up at Andrew, who was perched on the edge of her bed, watching her carefully.

“Are you sure about this, Dadda?” she asked hesitantly, her voice soft.

Andrew nodded, a warm smile on his face. “Absolutely, Yazzie. This journal… it’s a piece of my journey. And I think it might help you with yours.”

Yaz opened the journal gingerly, the old pages crackling with age. The first page greeted her with Andrew’s unmistakable handwriting, though it was far messier than the tidy notes she’d seen him write over the years. "Property of Andrew Zane. If found, return to the awkward kid in room 204."

“Awkward kid?” Yaz smirked, raising an eyebrow at her father.

“Oh, painfully awkward,” Andrew said, laughing. “This journal saw me through every cringe-worthy phase, every moment of self-doubt. It was my safe space to figure out who I was.”

As Yaz flipped through the pages, she found herself immersed in her father’s younger self. There were poems—some raw and heart-wrenching, others playful and funny. Short stories filled the margins, alongside doodles of imagined characters and scenes. Clothing labels were taped in, with notes scrawled beside them: "This jacket made me feel invincible" or "Never wear this color again!"

“What’s this?” Yaz asked, holding up a page with a tiny photo of Ralph, clearly cropped from a larger group picture.

Andrew leaned over, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Ah, that’s your Daddy. I used to carry that picture around before we got together. Took me years to admit I liked him, even to myself.”

Yaz raised an eyebrow. “And you stuck it in here?”

Andrew shrugged, his cheeks faintly pink. “It felt right at the time. This journal was where I put everything I couldn’t say out loud.”

She kept flipping, absorbing the stamps, stickers, pressed flowers, and fragments of his youth. But then she paused, her eyes catching on an entry that stood out from the rest. The handwriting was smaller, almost hesitant, and the page seemed more worn than the others, as if it had been revisited countless times.

March 14th.

I think I like boys.

Yaz’s breath caught as she read the words. Below the opening line, Andrew’s thoughts spilled out in a cascade of uncertainty.

No, I know I do. I can’t stop thinking about how his smile makes my stomach flip. Or the way his laugh feels like sunshine. I’ve never felt this way before—not about anyone. But it’s… terrifying. What does this mean? What if people find out? What if I don’t even understand it myself?

The writing trailed off, but further down, another date appeared, written more boldly.

April 10th.

Okay. I like boys. Or maybe I just really really like Ralph.

Yaz couldn’t help but smile as she traced the underlined words. “You were so brave.” she said softly, looking up at Andrew.

Andrew’s expression softened. “It didn’t feel that way at the time. I was scared out of my mind. But writing it down made it real, and once it was real… it wasn’t so scary anymore.”

Yaz turned back to the journal, her fingers brushing over a page filled with bold, messy letters: "It’s okay to not know who you are yet. Keep looking. You’ll find you’re more than you ever thought."

“Is that why you’re giving this to me?” she asked, her voice wavering.

Andrew nodded. “I see so much of myself in you, Yazzie. You’re confident and independent, but I also know how loud the world can get when you’re trying to figure out who you are. This journal helped me quiet the noise. Maybe it can do the same for you.”

Yaz closed the journal, hugging it to her chest. “Thanks, Dadda.” she whispered, her voice quiet.

Andrew reached over, pulling her into a warm hug. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now, Yaz. Just keep asking the questions. And remember, you’re never alone in this. We’re here for you, every step of the way.”

As Yaz nestled against her father’s shoulder, she felt a flicker of hope. She didn’t know all the answers yet, but for the first time in a long time, she felt ready to start looking.

The journal lay open on the floor beside them, its pages filled with Andrew’s journey—a map not just of where he’d been, but of where Yaz could go.

[pages-of-us]

A Brief History of Time: Debriefed

Elliot sat cross-legged on the living room floor, the battered book balanced carefully on his lap. Its once-pristine cover was creased and faded, the title barely legible under years of wear: A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking.

“Daddy,” Elliot called out, turning a few pages, his eyes catching on the scribbled notes in the margins. “What’s this?”

Ralph, who had been folding laundry nearby, glanced up. His expression softened the moment he saw what Elliot was holding. “Ah,” he said, walking over. “That’s an old friend.”

Elliot looked up at him, his ten-year-old face curious and earnest. “It looks really old,” he said, his small hands gingerly flipping through pages that threatened to detach. “And why are there so many scribbles? Did you write all this?”

Ralph chuckled, sitting down next to his son. “Yeah, I did. A lot of those notes are from when I was in college. Some are even older than that.” He gently took the book, running a thumb along the frayed edges. “This was the book that made me fall in love with science.”

Elliot’s eyes widened. “Really? This book?”

“Yup,” Ralph said, nodding. “I was around your age when my Abeoji gave it to me. He had a habit of giving people random books—sometimes ones he hadn’t even read himself. He handed me this one like it was no big deal, just another thing to put on my shelf.”

“What made you read it?” Elliot asked, tilting his head.

Ralph smiled, the memory warming his features. “Curiosity, mostly. I didn’t understand half of what it was saying at first. But there was something about it—about the way it described the universe, black holes, and time itself—that made me want to keep trying. I’d read a paragraph, get confused, and then start over. And over.”

“Sounds frustrating.” Elliot said with a laugh.

“It was,” Ralph admitted, laughing too. “But it was also fascinating. I remember sitting in my room late at night with a flashlight, going through this book like it held all the secrets of the world. In a way, it did.”

Elliot traced a finger over the scribbles in the margins, where equations were scrawled alongside underlined sentences and small stars marking key passages. “So, all these notes… They’re from when you were trying to figure it out?”

“Exactly,” Ralph said. “Every time I learned something new or had a thought about what I was reading, I wrote it down. That’s how I started to understand it.”

Elliot looked up, his expression thoughtful. “Did it make you want to be a scientist?”

“It made me want to understand,” Ralph said simply. “I didn’t become a scientist, but this book made me think differently about the world. It taught me to ask questions, to keep learning, and to stay curious.”

Elliot stared at the book for a long moment, his small hands gripping its worn cover. “Can I borrow it? Just to read?”

Ralph hesitated. This book had been with him through so many stages of his life; from late-night readings as a boy to the quiet days in college when the world felt too much to handle, this book had been there for him through many phases of his life. It was more than a book—it was a piece of him.

But as he looked at Elliot, sitting there with the same wide-eyed curiosity Ralph had felt as a child, he knew it was time.

“You know,” Ralph said, smiling softly, “I think it’s time this book had a new owner.”

Elliot’s eyes lit up. “Really? You mean it?”

Ralph handed the book to his son, his fingers lingering on the cover for just a moment before letting go. “Take care of it,” he said, his voice warm but serious. “It’s been with me for a long time.”

“I will.” Elliot promised, clutching the book to his chest.

“And, Elliot?” Ralph added, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t be afraid to write your own notes in there,” Ralph said with a wink. “Make it yours.”

Elliot grinned, nodding. “I will, Daddy.”

As Elliot darted off to his room, the book held tightly in his hands, Ralph watched him leave with an indescribable feeling. It was difficult to let go of something so dear and laden with memories.

But as he imagined Elliot lying in bed, flashlight in hand, poring over the mysteries of the universe, Ralph knew it was the right choice. The book had shaped his life. Now, it was time for it to shape Elliot’s.

[pages-of-us]

Elliot's First Words

The soft afternoon light filtered through the living room window, bathing the apartment in a warm glow. Andrew sat cross-legged on the floor, toys scattered around him and Elliot, who was babbling away in his baby language. Ralph was somewhere in the kitchen, enjoying his rare day off and preparing a meal.

Andrew leaned closer to Elliot, his face animated. “Okay, little guy, listen to me. Da-ddy,” he enunciated, exaggerating each syllable. “Come on, say it. Daddy!”

Elliot gurgled happily, his tiny hands waving in excitement, but no intelligible words came out.

Andrew sighed, undeterred. He’d been working on this for days, quietly coaching Elliot whenever Ralph wasn’t around. “Come on, you can do it,” he cooed. “Daddy, say Daddy!”

Elliot responded with a high-pitched squeal, clapping his chubby hands together.

Andrew smirked, glancing toward the kitchen to make sure Ralph wasn’t listening. If Elliot’s first word wasn’t going to be “Daddy,” it would at least be something that referred to Andrew. He wasn’t above a little competitive parenting, especially since Ralph seemed so confident that Elliot’s first word would naturally be his.

Suddenly, Elliot made a noise that caught Andrew off guard.

“Duh… Dadda,” Elliot babbled, his wide eyes fixed on Andrew.

Andrew’s heart leapt. “Yes! That’s it! Dadda!” He pointed to himself, grinning ear to ear. “That’s me, little guy. Say it again—Dadda!”

Elliot repeated the sound, clapping as though pleased with himself. Andrew almost whooped in triumph but quickly bit his lip to stay quiet. Ralph didn’t need to know about this yet. He could keep his victory private for now.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Later that afternoon, Ralph finally joined them in the living room, setting a bowl of fruit on the coffee table and settling onto the couch. Andrew played it cool, leaning back as if nothing monumental had happened.

Ralph glanced down at Elliot, who was busy gnawing on a soft rubber toy. “How’s my boy doing?”

Andrew barely suppressed a smirk. “Oh, you know. Just the usual. Playing, babbling… learning.”

Ralph raised an eyebrow at Andrew’s oddly self-satisfied tone but didn’t press further. He reached out to tickle Elliot’s tummy.

That’s when it happened.

“Dadda!” Elliot chirped suddenly, his voice clear and full of excitement.

Both Andrew and Ralph froze, staring at each other with wide eyes.

“Did he just—” Ralph began, but Andrew cut him off with an almost theatrical gasp.

“He said it!” Andrew exclaimed, pointing at himself. “He’s calling me Dadda! I knew he loved me more!”

Ralph blinked, stunned, before breaking into a grin. “Wait a second. Are you sure he means you? I mean, ‘Dadda’ could be me, too.”

Andrew crossed his arms, smug. “Oh, no. Watch this.” He turned to Elliot, pointing at himself. “Elliot, who’s Dadda?”

Elliot’s little face lit up as he turned to Andrew and squealed, “Dadda!”

Andrew puffed out his chest in triumph. “See? He knows who’s who.”

But then, Elliot surprised them both. He turned toward Ralph, pointed a tiny finger, and babbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “Daddy.”

Andrew’s jaw dropped. “Wait, what? No—he can’t have two first words! That’s not fair!”

Ralph threw his head back and laughed, his deep chuckles filling the room. “I guess he just decided to split the difference,” he said, ruffling Elliot’s hair.

Elliot looked between them, clearly pleased with the attention he was getting. “Dadda! Daddy!” he chirped again, pointing at each of them in turn.

Andrew groaned, flopping back onto the floor in mock defeat. “Fine. You win this round. But I got Dadda first, and you can’t take that away from me.”

Ralph leaned over to kiss Andrew’s forehead. “You know what? I think we both won.”

Andrew couldn’t help but smile as Elliot clapped his hands, clearly proud of himself. “Alright, alright. Dadda and Daddy it is. But just wait—he’s going to say ‘I love you’ to me first.”

“Dream on,” Ralph teased, laughing as he reached for Elliot. “Daddy’s got this one in the bag.”

[pages-of-us]

Small Act of Kindness

Andrew first noticed it during their sophomore year at Yale. Ralph wasn’t loud about his kindness; he wasn’t someone who preached charity or wore his good deeds like badges of honor. Instead, his acts of compassion unfolded naturally, as though they were simply a reflex.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

One cold November afternoon, Andrew was walking with Ralph through the campus square when they spotted an elderly woman standing by the curb, her frail hands clutching a cane, struggling to lift a bag filled with groceries. Students bustled around her, rushing to their destinations, oblivious.

Ralph noticed immediately. “Hold this for a second,” he said, passing his messenger bag to Andrew before crossing the street.

Andrew watched as Ralph gently took the bag from the woman and spoke to her softly, his warm demeanor melting away her hesitation. By the time Ralph returned, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, cheeks pink from the cold, Andrew was smiling.

“What?” Ralph asked, his brow furrowed.

“Nothing,” Andrew replied, biting back the warmth in his chest. Who does that anymore?

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

It wasn’t just a one-off. Ralph’s quiet acts of kindness followed Andrew everywhere they went. Late one rainy afternoon, as they were walking back to Ralph’s dorm, Ralph stopped mid-step, staring at the wet pavement.

“What’s wrong?” Andrew asked.

Without a word, Ralph crouched down, scooping up a small bird lying on the ground, its wing bent unnaturally. He cupped it carefully in his hands, shielding it from the rain.

“What are you going to do with it?” Andrew asked, leaning in closer.

“Help it,” Ralph said simply. He carried the bird all the way back to his dorm suite, where he and his roommates fashioned a little nest out of a shoebox and soft cloth. The next morning, Ralph called a local wildlife rescue to ensure the bird received proper care.

Andrew was floored. “You know you’re kind of amazing, right?”

Ralph gave him a puzzled smile. “For helping a bird?”

Andrew shook his head, grinning. “For helping everyone.”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

One evening, as they walked back from their favorite café, Ralph’s fraternity brothers were joking and laughing, their voices carrying through the quiet street. They passed an older woman struggling to lift a small bookshelf from a moving van into her newly rented apartment.

Before anyone said a word, Ralph stopped. He didn’t hesitate or call attention to himself—he simply strode over, his long legs quickly closing the distance between them. With practiced ease, he bent down, lifting the bookshelf as if it weighed nothing.

His frat brothers stared, their laughter fading into surprise. One of them, Carter, broke the silence. “Uh… are we doing this?”

“We’re doing this,” another one, Daniel, replied, already following Ralph’s lead.

Within minutes, the entire group was unpacking boxes, assembling shelves, and arranging furniture. The woman was overwhelmed, her gratitude spilling out in a stream of thank-yous. Ralph smiled softly, nodding, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

Back on the sidewalk, Carter nudged Ralph with his elbow. “You’re gonna kill us with all this good Samaritan stuff, man.”

Ralph shrugged, grinning. “You’ll live.”

Andrew, walking beside him, felt something deep and unshakable settle in his chest.

I could love this man for the rest of my life.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Years later, Ralph hadn’t changed. Neither had Andrew’s awe.

One summer evening, Andrew stood on their front porch watching Ralph kneel by the sidewalk, helping a neighborhood kid fix their wobbly bike. Yaz zipped past on her scooter, her laugh carrying through the warm air, while Ellias followed close behind. Ralph’s steady hands guided the little boy’s, showing him how to tighten a bolt and check the brakes.

“Why do you always stop to help people?” Andrew had asked years ago, early in their relationship.

Ralph had shrugged, his face thoughtful. “Why wouldn’t I? If you can help, why wouldn’t you?”

It was a simple philosophy, but it defined him.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Andrew tried to carry the same torch in his way. Ralph inspired him to notice the small moments, to act when others might hesitate. Together, they passed that lesson on to their children.

At bedtime, Andrew told them stories about how their Daddy once helped an old woman move furniture or rescued a bird. He’d always end with the same line: “Kindness isn’t about being noticed; it’s about doing the right thing because it’s the right thing to do.”

It worked. Yaz organized a neighborhood toy drive one year. Ellias volunteered to help a younger kid struggling with their reading. Even Elliot, with all his focus and ambition, made time to tutor classmates who were falling behind.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

One night, as Andrew climbed into bed beside Ralph, he placed a hand over his husband’s, intertwining their fingers.

“You know,” Andrew said softly, “I’ve loved you for a lot of reasons over the years. But this? The way you love people without a second thought? That’s the thing I love most about you.”

Ralph turned his head, his eyes crinkling with a tender smile. “You’re pretty good at it yourself.”

Andrew laughed quietly, squeezing his hand. “I’m just trying to keep up.”

And in their quiet home, surrounded by the love they’d nurtured, Andrew knew they were teaching their children the most important lesson of all: the world could always use a little more kindness.

[pages-of-us]

Everyone Who Knows Me, Knows You

It started with the small things.

Andrew was walking to class one crisp fall morning, hugging his thermos of coffee, when a voice called out behind him.

“Hey, you’re Andrew, right? Ralph’s Andrew?”

He turned to see a girl he vaguely recognized from Ralph’s major. She was bundled up in a scarf and coat, a bag slung over her shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said cautiously, surprised by the possessive tone in her phrasing. “That’s me.”

Her face lit up. “Oh! Ralph mentioned you love these.” She reached into her coat pocket and handed him a small packet of candied ginger.

Andrew blinked. “Thanks?”

“He said it’s the kind of thing you’d keep in your bag during finals week,” she added with a grin. “Anyway, have a good day!”

She dashed off before Andrew could respond, leaving him both amused and confused. He wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened, but it left a warmth in his chest that carried him through the day.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

It wasn’t an isolated incident.

One afternoon, Andrew was in the dining hall, scanning the options at the buffet, when one of Ralph’s fraternity brothers stopped next to him.

“Hey, Andrew,” the guy said casually, nudging him. “Ralph says you like your food a bit spicier, right?”

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah, I guess.”

The guy grinned and handed him a small container of chili flakes. “Here. Ralph said the food here’s way too bland for your taste.”

Andrew laughed despite himself. “He said that, did he?”

“Oh, yeah. Ralph talks about you all the time,” the guy added, completely nonchalant. “It’s, like, the most normal thing ever.”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Then there was the time Andrew visited the library and found a stack of notes waiting for him. His name was scrawled on the corner of the top sheet, along with a sticky note that read, “From Ralph’s study group. He said you might need these for your paper. Good luck!”

Andrew stared at the notes for a long moment, a lump rising in his throat.

Ralph had always been generous with his time, but what struck Andrew the most was the way his boyfriend made him feel connected to people he hadn’t even met.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

The moment that truly cemented the feeling, though, came during an evening stroll. Andrew had just finished a late shift at the library and decided to grab a tea from the café near campus.

The barista handed him the drink with a knowing smile. “You’re Andrew, right? Ralph’s boyfriend?”

Andrew smiled back, not even questioning how she knew. “Yeah, that’s me.”

She nodded toward the drink. “He told me you like honey in your tea, so I added a little extra. On the house.”

Andrew held the cup in his hands, warmth radiating from it as much as from her gesture. “Thank you,” he said softly.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — —

When Andrew finally confronted Ralph about it, they were curled up on Ralph’s dorm couch, a blanket draped over their legs.

“You know everyone who knows you knows me, right?” Andrew said, his tone a mix of amusement and wonder.

Ralph raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a small smile. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” Andrew said, shaking his head. “It’s just… everywhere I go, someone mentions you. And somehow, they always know something about me.”

Ralph chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from Andrew’s face. “What can I say? I like talking about the things I care about.”

Andrew’s breath hitched at the simplicity of Ralph’s words. There was no grand declaration, no theatrics—just Ralph, being Ralph.

“I care about you,” Ralph added, his voice softer now. “So, yeah. Everyone who knows me? Of course, they’re going to know you.”

Andrew leaned into him, resting his head on Ralph’s shoulder. The world felt smaller and warmer in that moment, the weight of Ralph’s words settling into his heart.

“I don’t deserve you,” Andrew murmured.

Ralph pressed a kiss to the top of Andrew’s head. “You do,” he whispered. “You always have.”

And in that quiet, unassuming way of his, Ralph showed Andrew that love didn’t always need grand gestures—it lived in the everyday moments, in the kindness shared with strangers, and in the simple act of saying someone’s name.