Miku first noticed Jay in the space between conversations.
He was never the loudest in the room. Never the one reaching for attention. He existed slightly apart, as if he had learned that standing too close to people meant being pulled into something he couldn't escape.
She noticed how he listened.
Not politely. Not out of obligation.
He listened as if words mattered.
That was the beginning.
Jay noticed Miku later.
He noticed her because she didn't try to be noticed.
She didn't interrupt his silences. Didn't fill them. She let them exist, and in doing so, made them feel less heavy.
That scared him.
People who were patient always did.
---
Jay had learned to recognize danger early.
It arrived quietly, disguised as comfort.
When Miku smiled at him, it wasn't hopeful or demanding. It was simple. Open. As if she expected nothing in return.
He told himself it meant nothing.
---
Days passed. Conversations stayed light. Moments accumulated without permission.
Miku learned small things about him—how he preferred bitter coffee, how he avoided talking about the past, how his laughter always came late, as if he had to decide whether it was safe.
Jay learned that Miku noticed everything.
The way he stood apart.
The way he flinched when affection lingered too long.
The way he withdrew just when things felt easy.
She never called him out.
That made it worse.
---
"You don't talk much about yourself," Miku said one afternoon, gently.
Jay shrugged. "Nothing interesting there."
That was a lie.
But it was the safest one he had.
---
He told himself to keep his distance.
To not let familiarity turn into attachment.
But one evening, when she stood beside him without asking questions, without expectations, something inside him shifted.
Not love.
Not yet.
Just the quiet thought that staying near her didn't hurt.
And that frightened him more than loneliness ever had..