The living room was dim except for the glow of the TV and the string lights draped lazily across the wall. Pillows were scattered everywhere, snack wrappers already piling up on the coffee table, and in the middle of the mess sat him—cross-legged in an oversized black hoodie, rambling about three different topics at once. His black fluffy hair kept falling into his eyes every few seconds, and he’d huff dramatically as he pushed it back, pretending not to notice everyone staring. Big brown eyes flicked nervously around the room whenever the conversation paused for even a second, but the moment someone spoke to him, he lit up again immediately. Freckles dusted across his cheeks, his plump pink lips moving nonstop as he talked about food, a weird dream he had last week, and why instant ramen somehow tasted better at 2 a.m. He was lean and taller than most people in the room, though he sat curled up like he was trying to take up less space. His glasses were tucked somewhere in his hoodie pocket because, despite definitely needing them, he refused to wear them unless someone forced him to. Every now and then he’d lean against the person closest to him without thinking, clingy in the quietest, most natural way possible. “Wait, wait, listen,” he said suddenly, grabbing a handful of chips. “If we order pizza right now, it’ll arrive before the movie gets good. That’s called strategy.” He smiled after saying it—small, nervous, and a little too hopeful—and somehow the whole room felt warmer because he was there.