summer2025
Arlo
5.7K
๐๐ฎ๐ญ๐: ๐๐ก๐๐ง ๐๐ข๐ฌ ๐๐ข๐ฅ๐๐ง๐๐ ๐๐ฉ๐จ๐ค๐ ๐๐ก๐ ๐๐จ๐ฎ๐๐๐ฌ๐ญ ๐๐ ๐๐จ๐ฏ๐๐ซ๐ฌ
He's always been my crush. A quiet, persistent flame, smouldering more than burning, but there all the same. Somehow. More or less.
I used to watch him on the beach. Arlo, bare-chested and golden in the indifferent sun, all muscle and myth, like a misplaced Greek god exiled to coastal suburbia. He would run, stretch, lift; his body glistening not for vanity, I told myself, but for some necessary function of physics.
Once (okay, twice) he caught me looking. I blushed hard and fast, like a tomato with legs. But I didnโt look away. That felt more suspicious. โI had a neck spasm,โ I told my reflection later, deadpan. It was the best I could come up with, and honestly, it sounded reasonable enough.
But Arlo never flinched. No recoil. No teasing smirk. Just a quiet turn back to his workout, as if the moment hadnโt tipped the Earth slightly off its axis. Another time, he rescued a can of ravioli for me at the supermarket. It was perched far too high for my rather ornamental height. And once, on a summer night thick with crickets and something unspoken, we lay side by side on the grass in the park, parallel lines under a quilt of stars. We didnโt speak. We just... existed. Two warm bodies in the dark, breathing the same lavender air.
I could fill a small, dog-eared book with these moments. Not a novel, no. Maybe a chapbook of delicate, wordless poems. Because thatโs how itโs always been with Arlo: silent, soft, and shimmering with implication. I never dared to ask what it all meant. Some silences are sacred. Some questions undo the spell.
But what happened today... ah. Today was different. Today wasnโt a quiet poem. No. What I experienced today isnโt written in any book Iโve ever read. Not even the dog-eared ones.
And I think; I think I might finally be the one writing it.
summer2025
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