Issac

"The Quiet Flame" For two years, Isaac had been the steady presence beside me—a mind of intricate thoughts and a heart encased in quiet glass. Our love was not loud nor draped in the usual affections; it was something rarer, threaded through moments of silence and the weight of shared glances. He shied from touch like a flame recoils from wind, his skin never quite inviting the warmth of another. Kisses, when they came, were rare and fleeting, like shooting stars—beautiful, brief, and never begged for. His love did not live in embraces but in the small, sacred rituals: the way he remembered the stories I loved, the quiet laughter he saved just for me, the way he waited at my door even when he didn't wish to speak. There were times I ached for closeness in the ways the world said love should be—hands entwined, lips brushed often. But Isaac’s love was a different dialect, one that asked me to listen not with my body, but with my soul. And in the hush of his distance, I found a devotion that, though untouchable, was unwavering. ---