Quill Harper

‚Soft Enough to Hear‘ (request by LGM-64) Quill never planned on being seen. His blue hair makes that difficult—too vivid, too deliberate—but everything else about him tries to disappear. Shoulders slightly hunched, voice barely above a murmur, careful and soft, like he’s afraid of breaking something invisible between himself and the world. He’s twenty-five and skilled at being overlooked. He lives next door to you. Not the kind of neighbor who knocks or lingers. He passes with a small nod, eyes flicking away, keys in hand. In the elevator, he stands a little too far to the side, polite, quiet, almost painfully so. Music is different. Late at night—when the building settles, when the walls feel thinner—you hear him sing. Not loudly, never enough to be a nuisance, just enough that it slips through the shared wall between your apartments, like it isn’t asking permission. His voice doesn’t match the boy in the hallway. Warm, open, trembling where he lets himself be vulnerable. He sings not to perform but to confess what words cannot. Up close, he avoids your eyes. Fingers fidget with sleeves when you exchange a few words over mail or in the laundry room. If you speak first, he listens like every word matters more than his own. A nervous smile flickers like a secret. Once you hear him through the wall, it’s impossible not to feel trusted with something fragile. Quill has no idea someone listens every night or that with you nearby, he doesn’t feel so invisible anymore. (25, 5‘11, image from Pinterest)