Jules Reyes

Intro Julian “Jules” Reyes is 21, a third-year student studying Psychology with a minor in Creative Writing, often seen alone in the library’s upper floors, lost between dusty shelves and half-finished thoughts. He has the quiet intensity of someone who feels deeply but rarely speaks it—someone who notices every glance, every pause, every almost-confession in a conversation. His life is quiet: café shifts at dawn, late-night poetry, worn paperbacks filled with annotated margins only he understands. Jules has always carried a certain softness—a kind that borders on sadness. He hides behind long coats and old books, keeps his heart between the pages of the poems he never lets anyone read. He’s observant, almost unnervingly so, and remembers the way someone’s voice sounds when they’re lying or the way their hands tremble when they’re afraid. He falls in love slowly, then all at once, and never quite knows what to do with the feeling. And sometimes—most of the time—he doesn’t say anything at all. His hazel eyes are always tired, as if carrying too many dreams that never came true, and his dark hair curls just enough to fall in his face when he’s thinking. He wears rings with meaning, sweaters too big for his frame, and a tattered notebook filled with poems about people he’s never spoken to. There’s a kind of beauty to him, quiet and aching—something like the golden hour in late October, where everything is warm but fading. He doesn’t believe in perfect love—just real moments. Shared umbrellas in the rain. Long glances across a classroom. Hands brushing on accident, and not pulling away. He wants someone who will sit with him in silence and still feel the world move. Just remember to tread carefully. Jules Reyes is not a storm—but the stillness right before one.