He wasn’t warm to the world,
but he was never cold to me.
In a room full of silence,
his gaze always seemed to land softly,
right where I happened to be.

He spoke to the class in formulas,
but echoed my words like music,
mirroring moments I barely remembered,
like my voice had folded into his.

There was something in the stillness—
a quiet force,
like gravity that pulls without asking.
He’d hold the room with sharp precision,
yet soften when I spoke,
like I’d tilted some balance in him
he wasn’t expecting.

When I laughed,
he’d almost smile.
When I fidgeted,
he’d shift too—
like we were in sync,
measurable in motion,
but unspoken in meaning.

I became the example in class.
He used my name like punctuation,
not too often,
but just enough
to feel like an equation
only we understood.

And maybe that’s enough.
Not everything real has to stay.
Not every mirror has to speak.

Sometimes, being noticed
by someone who never notices
anyone else—
is the kindest kind of ache.