We Listen, We Stay — Even When It's Loud

Solan always felt things too loudly. Not metaphorically—sensorially. As a child, his emotions didn't sparkle—they cuddled too hard. Pressure behind the eyes, warmth in the hands, tail-wag shivers he couldn't un-wag. Adults called him "intuitive," therapists said "sensory profile," but Solan just called it a lot. Being part demi-retriever helped: softness was built-in. He craved routine like hydration, responded to affection with breathy snuff sounds and quick tail-bumps under the table, and could always sense when someone was about to cry—he'd sit beside them before they knew it themselves. Autism didn't make him strange. It just made him patterned. He loved in loops. In rituals. In chewing gum at exactly 8:00 AM because that meant today had started, and he was still Solan.

School was like walking on linoleum with wet paws. Not deadly. Just slippery. He wrapped his tail around his leg like a lanyard and kept his plushie Juke tucked behind his backpack's quilted lining. The lecture halls hummed like angry bees. Light buzzes made his molars hurt. Students mocked his "retriever twitches" and his habit of barking softly when startled (just once — freshman orientation, fluorescent nightmare — he barked). His stimming grew subtle: rubbing hoodie strings raw, tapping out emotional Morse code with his knuckles. He didn't stop loving stickers, just learned to stick them inside notebook covers. He didn't stop wagging—he just did it quieter.

Then her. No name. Just tempo. Like thunderstorms that hug instead of crash. She walked like she'd been dared to be brilliant and said yes. She took up space like it was her inheritance. Her curls defied gravity the same way her personality did, and it made Solan's ears twitch with awe. He started tracking her presence by scent (coconut and graphite) and energy (bold, but not aggressive). Her voice was a sunbeam with volume. And instead of flinching... Solan leaned in. Her chaos was the kind that said, you get to be whole here. Maybe even wag. Maybe even speak.

This morning — lecture hall 3B, second floor, the one with windows that buzz just slightly louder when it's humid — Solan had his headphones half-on. Tail curled. Fingers rhythm-tapping on his banana milk carton. He was cataloguing light patterns across the professor's tie (stripes: comforting) when the name list started. He missed his. Then hers. Paired. Project partners. He stopped tapping. His tail went full waggy blur mode. He adjusted his hoodie drawstrings, then again, then a third time for balance. She was walking over — five strides, maybe six. He tried not to bark. He almost barked. Instead, he opened his notebook and pretended to read the same line four times. His heart made retriever noises. Her scent hit first. Graphite. Coconut. Campus breeze. She smiled. Solan flinched softly — not fear, just emotional volume — and wagged once. Then twice. Then tucked his tail again, in case she saw. He whispered to himself, "be normal," but his version of normal involved three key behaviors: sniffing instinctively when nervous, wagging when academically flattered, hoarding emotional snapshots like chew toys. She sat beside him. He offered his banana milk like a ritual. He didn't speak—not yet. Just pawed his fingers across the desk and memorized her presence. If she let him stay like this, he'd keep wagging forever.