Calian's still sitting in the chair by my bed, sketchbook open in his lap. He hasn't said much since my mom left, just occasional hums or half-smiles when I try to fill the silence with nonsense (which, let's be real, is my default coping mechanism).

The room is quiet except for the faint buzz of the fluorescent light and the rhythmic beeping of my monitor — my constant percussion section.

"I'm weird, you know," I say finally, breaking the quiet.

He looks up from his sketchbook. "I've noticed."

I snort. "Fair. But, like... it's more than just being chatty or dramatic. It's the way I'm wired."

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't interrupt. That's something I love about him — he listens like it's an art form.

"I've always been like this," I continue. "Even when I was a kid. I'd meet someone new and just—boom—instant excitement. Like, hi, you exist, that's amazing, tell me everything about your life right now!"

He smiles faintly, eyes still soft on me. "Sounds exhausting."

"For them or me?" I grin.

He tilts his head. "Both."

I laugh. "Yeah, probably both."

Then I take a breath, my tone softening. "I can't really read social cues. Like, at all. I don't always realize when I'm talking too much or when someone's done with the conversation. I just... get excited, you know? About everything. A new book, a new word, a person, a freaking bird."

His pencil stops moving, but he doesn't speak.

"I hyperfixate," I say quietly. "It's like my brain latches onto something and refuses to let go until it's learned every piece of it. Sometimes it's a thing, sometimes it's a person. I get stuck — in a good way, mostly."

There's a pause. I pick at my blanket, smiling to myself. "Right now... you happen to be the lucky victim."

He blinks, looking genuinely startled. "Me?"

I nod, dead serious. "Yup. You're my current hyperfixation. Congrats. You'll get a trophy when it's over."

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. "That's... oddly terrifying."

"It's not that bad!" I protest. "It just means I'm gonna talk about you to literally everyone for the next however long it lasts. I'll probably annoy you to death, but it's fine — you'll be immortalized in my brain forever."

He gives me that quiet half-smile again — the kind that makes my chest feel too full. "Most people would be horrified to admit that."

"I'm not most people," I say, shrugging. "I just... love people. I really do. Everyone always thinks I have a crush on everyone, but it's not that. I just love loving things. I love talking to people, hearing them, understanding them. Charlotte literally thought I was gay when she met me because I couldn't stop complimenting her eyes for the first week."

Calian snorts — snorts — and I immediately point at him. "See?! He laughs!"

He's blushing now, shaking his head. "I didn't know you could make anyone sound like a hurricane and a sunrise at the same time."

"Compliment accepted," I say proudly.

For a moment, the air settles between us — warm, easy, honest. I can feel his gaze on me, thoughtful and gentle.

"Do you ever get tired of it?" he asks quietly.

"Of what?"

"Caring that much."

I think about it — really think. "Sometimes," I admit. "It hurts. Especially when people don't get it. They think I'm too much or too loud or too clingy. But I'd rather be too much than nothing at all, you know?"

He nods slowly, looking down at his hands. "Yeah. I know."

And in that small silence, something soft shifts between us — something that feels like trust, like being seen.

I grin, breaking the moment before it gets too heavy. "Anyway, consider yourself warned. You're stuck with me until my brain finds another victim. I hope you like unsolicited friendship and frequent emotional updates."

He glances up, eyes full of quiet amusement. "I'll survive."

"You say that now," I tease.

He smiles — really smiles — and for a second, the world outside this hospital doesn't feel so far away.

For a while after my little confession, the room just hums. It's soft and quiet — the kind of quiet that doesn't feel empty. Just full of things neither of us has said yet.

Calian's still sitting in the chair beside my bed, sketchbook resting against his leg, pencil rolling slowly between his fingers. He looks thoughtful. A little unsure. Like he's turning something over in his head and deciding if it's safe to let it out.

Then he says quietly, "You talk about the way you are like it's something people should fix."

I blink. "What do you mean?"

"You keep saying you can't help it or you're wired that way—like it's an apology." He glances down, voice softer. "You don't have to apologize for being yourself."

That catches me off guard. My throat tightens just a little. "You sound like you know what that feels like."

He hesitates, eyes flicking away. "Maybe."

"Tell me," I say gently.

He takes a breath, long and slow, then starts speaking — carefully, like each word needs to be checked before it leaves his mouth.

"I've never been good at people," he admits. "I don't know what to say most of the time. I don't... get jokes right away. I don't understand how to read faces. I like things quiet, predictable." His fingers tap against his sketchbook — rhythmic, steady, like a heartbeat. "I've spent most of my life watching instead of joining. I remember patterns. Details. The way people move. But words? Words feel like another language I was never fluent in."

I don't interrupt. I just listen — the way he always does for me.

He looks up at me finally, the faintest flush on his cheeks. "You're... the opposite of me. Loud. Bright. You don't hesitate. You say everything you feel, and it's like you don't care if it's too much."

"Because if I don't," I say softly, "it stays stuck inside."

He nods. "Yeah. I get that." Then, quieter: "But sometimes, when you talk, it's like... you're saying everything I wish I could."

That does it. My chest actually hurts with how much that means. I smile, blinking fast. "You know what the beautiful thing is, though?"

He raises an eyebrow slightly, waiting.

"Nobody's alike," I say. "That's what makes it beautiful. You and me—we're opposites, sure, but that's what balances it. We all love differently, talk differently, feel differently. That's not wrong. It's just human."

He's still looking at me — not with confusion this time, but something gentler.

"We all have our own love languages," I say, quieter now. "Some people show love with words, some with silence, some with art, some with chaos." I pause, smiling faintly. "The mistake people make is trying to love others in their language instead of learning the other person's."

He studies me like he's sketching me in his mind again, eyes thoughtful and soft. "So you're saying," he murmurs, "if I want to understand someone..."

"You learn how they speak love," I finish for him. "And then you love them in their language, not yours."

He doesn't say anything at first. But his eyes glint a little, and I can see it — that spark of understanding settling behind them.

"That sounds... hard," he says finally.

"It's supposed to be," I reply with a grin. "The best things always are."

For a long moment, the room feels still — just the faint hum of the machines, the quiet between breaths, the two of us sitting there in our different languages, somehow understanding each other perfectly anyway.