He is what they call the quiet type. A man of few words. Pensive. Reclusive. An introvert. They call him so many things even if he speaks so few. His eyes could tell you more but it’s always disguised in the melancholy of a smile. He doesn’t laugh as loud. He doesn’t sing in the shower. He doesn’t tell good jokes. But he grins, and mumbles. He whistles a tune. He smiles wide enough to let his eyelids fold, his forehead crumple. He doesn’t say I love you all the time. And when he does, it’s lost in chatter: his fingers dribbling on the table; his breath enveloping the three words with ice; the noise of surroundings; the chrome of his gaze. He seems sheepish. He seems out of touch and distant – a far flung planet that is barely gripping on the slippery gravity of any moment.
And yet, every time I find myself at a loss for words, rendered ineloquent and levelled by the loudness of emotion, his quietness is the steadiness which consoles and clarifies. In his silence, he hears everything, absorbs everything. What one would mistake as indifference, is in truth, a generous attentiveness that has been sharpened by the innate compassion he possesses. That even before my heart could speak or sigh, he would have already heard the whispers. Most of important of all, he would be there. Just there.