The quite one (ONE SHOTS)

I don't like loud things.

Crowds. Voices. People who talk just to hear themselves speak.

But her laugh?

That's different.

It sits somewhere inside my chest and refuses to leave.

I notice her before she notices me. I always do.

The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's thinking. The way her foot taps when she's nervous. The way she smiles like she's hiding a secret she doesn't know I've already solved.

I watch.

I shouldn't.

But I do anyway.

They think I'm quiet because I don't have anything to say.

They're wrong.

I'm quiet because every time I look at her, words disappear.

Because if I start talking about her, I might never stop.

Because I'm not afraid of people.

I'm afraid of how much I want her.

Not in a way that cages her.

In a way that makes me want to stand between her and every storm that could touch her.

If she walks into a room, my eyes follow.

Not because I want to control where she goes.

But because it feels wrong to exist in a place where she is and not know where she is.

They call it possessive.

Maybe it is.

But I would rather be called that than pretend I don't feel my chest tighten when someone makes her laugh a little too hard.

She doesn't belong to me.

But there's a dangerous, quiet voice inside my head that keeps saying she fits beside me like she was always meant to be there.

And the worst part?

She looks at me like she hears that voice too.