He is shy, and unfortunately I am hard on the shy boys, I really am. Maybe being shy is adorable in small doses, but it’s a real shame and a wasteful habit to keep up. You lose so many opportunities over what-ifs and maybe-I-shouldn’ts.

And now he has heard my stories. I’m kind enough to skip the ones I realise might endear someone to me, and go straight for the kill, a buffet spread of the crème de la crème de la awful. the people I have hurt, the nasty things I have said & done & the nastier things I have thought of. I spread out my instability with a morbid honesty I’m surprised I was even capable of. if I can’t bore him, I thought, I will scare him away.

amazingly, it doesn’t seem to be working on my new friend.

I am a cartographer trying to find the borders of his patience, but his territory just stretches on & on ridiculously. I am trying to pour concrete over the view and he is convincing me to sit down and enjoy it instead, to take in his meek silent self, and when I do, he rewards me with explosively brief moments of vulnerability or quirky wit.

it is new to me, and I find it thrilling, like a treasure hunt. it doesn’t come easy. shyboys are hellbent on only disclosing their brilliance after it is deserved, they don’t serve it cheap, and it certainly isn’t orchestrated or lined up on a plate like a comedian rocket ready to launch. And now his silent stubbornness has gently worn away at me, leaving a soft spot, a part that wants to stop pushing.

I think like all interactions, we are occasionally trading our modus operandi.
I am beginning to live the intro in my inner introvert.
He is now a part-time extrovert, extending coolly in all directions.