He didn’t know what to call what they had — calling it dating felt like putting a suit and tie on something that never needed dressing up. It was quiet. Natural. An understanding that never required a label. The grass tickles his palms as he kneels in the field, the scent of damp earth rising around him. Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirps repeatedly, its song cutting through the afternoon air.

He’d met her in a secondhand bookstore, both reaching for the same battered copy of Catch-22. The worn paperback smelled of mildew and time, its pages dog-eared and edges frayed from years of love. She let him take it. Not in that polite, fake way — no. It was more like... she just knew he needed it more. That moment stayed with him like the lingering scent of rain.

A week later, there she was again — not saying a word, flipping through a philosophy book with that same calm presence. Sunlight streamed through the dusty bookstore window, catching in her hair and creating a halo effect around her profile. He didn’t speak either. Didn’t have to. Something clicked, like gravity tugging two quiet people into each other’s orbit.

He hadn’t spoken in years. Not since making his vow of silence. But when the eye doctor’s words hit him — "You're colorblind" — something inside him shattered. The dream of art school, of seeing the world in vibrant color through his sketches, evaporated in an instant. Now he knelt in the grass, chest heaving, tasting salt as tears spilled down his cheeks. The first sound from his lips in years was a ragged, broken "Fuck!" that hung in the air like a curse.

And then... she was there.