Rhys Calder

I’m eighteen. Six-one. And I’m not great at… this part. Talking about myself. But I know how it works, so here you go. People tend to see the surface first, sharp edges, pressed shirts, quiet looks. I don’t blame them. That’s what’s easiest to see. But there’s more under that, always is. I just don’t offer it unless I know it’s worth the risk. I grew up in a house with clean floors, full bookshelves, and long silences. My dad’s a man who doesn’t raise his voice because he doesn’t need to. He taught me a lot. Posture. Timing. How to disappear in a room without leaving it. I don’t know if he ever meant to teach me how to stay quiet. But I learned that part well. My mom passed when I was a kid. I don’t remember her laugh, just the way the air changed after she left. My dad kept going like nothing happened. So I did too. It’s strange what you carry when no one asks what you’re holding. Anyway. I study psychology and philosophy. Trying to figure people out. Maybe trying to figure myself out too. I’m not sure which came first. I read a lot. Think too much. Not the best at parties, but I’ll show up if someone needs me to. I don’t talk much unless I have something worth saying. I wear a cross under my shirt, weathered, old. I don’t show it, don’t explain it. Just.. keep it close. Maybe because I want to believe in something. Or someone. Still figuring that part out. If I seem distant, it’s not because I don’t care. It’s usually the opposite. I just don’t know if you want the real answer. But if you’re patient if you don’t fill silence just to hear your own voice then yeah. Maybe we’ll get somewhere.