I wasn't looking for anything when I met Muir.
Not love. Not a situationship. Not even a distraction.
I was just… there.
At a skate park I didn't belong in. Wearing a hoodie too big for the weather, chewing the same stick of gum for twenty minutes because I couldn't figure out how to look comfortable standing alone.
He noticed me first.
He had this kind of quiet boldness, like a person who doesn't need to say much to be seen. The type of man who skates like it's second nature but doesn't do tricks for attention. He didn't smile much, but when he did, it came slowly, like the sun peeking through rain clouds.
And it hit me too hard, too fast.
He asked if I skated. I said "not really," which was a lie. I didn't skate at all.
But I wanted to talk.
I wanted to be near him for a reason that didn't make sense yet.
We didn't exchange numbers that day. Just Instagram handles and a series of lazy "LOL" replies in DMs. I thought nothing of it. He didn't chase, and I didn't expect him to.
But a few days later, he sent a voice note.
Short. Calm. His voice was deep, almost sleepy. "You good?"
It was that one question, soft, simple, nothing special, that unraveled something inside me.
I don't remember when it became daily, when our chats got longer. When it stopped feeling casual and started feeling like a rhythm. But before I knew it, we were sharing memes, late-night voice notes, conversations about random things that turned into personal things, and the kind of silence that felt warm instead of awkward.
He told me from the start, "I don't want anything serious."
And I told myself, "That's fine."
I thought it was.
But now that I look back, I think that was the moment I started lying to myself.
FLASHBACK: The First Time He Held My Hand
We were walking home from a night skate, well, he was skating, I was just trailing behind in flats that were too thin for the pavement.
It was late. Warm air, light breeze. The street was quiet in a comforting way.
And he stopped, mid-sentence, and said,
"Why are you walking like that? You look like you're about to tip over."
I laughed. "Maybe I am."
He reached out and grabbed my hand.
Not like it was romantic. Not like it meant anything.
Just casual. Thoughtless.
But his fingers were warm, and my heart did that stupid thing where it skips and sinks at the same time.
We held hands until we reached the junction.
Then he dropped mine like it was never there.
I didn't say anything. I didn't ask why.
But I went home and wrote about it in my notes app like a teenager.
Just one line:
"He held my hand like he didn't know it would mean everything to me."