The wind blows insanely today. The sound of the window being slapped disturbs Mom’s speech about family love. Tom stands up to close the window. He can hear Max’s whisper, You sneaky bastard. He chuckles.

He heads straight to his room. The roasted turkey is bumping in his full stomach with the tedious Christmas music playlist. He lies on his bed, the biggest red flag to me is someone sitting on my bed without taking a bath first. In his ears, Charlotte’s voice suddenly replays. How long has it been since they last texted each other? Can’t remember. He stares at their chat window, lifting the keyboard. The blinking cursor waits for him, patient but merciless. He hesitates, fingers suspended—then hits the leave icon.

He rubs his hair in irritation. If she fancies him enough, she’ll text him. She takes the initiative every time, doesn’t she? That doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about her, but he can’t text her first. He can’t be too obvious, can he? He should keep himself safe in the friend’s zone.

He opens her profile, wondering what song she’s put on recently. He scrolls down the page with her voice stuck in his ears—her laugh, her smile, her saccharine but unruffled voice.

There wasn’t any song in her profile. However, something catches his eye. He presses his thumb to the screen and drags upward. The content settles on the screen, but his thumb doesn’t move. It stays there, pressed flat, as though something has glued it to the surface.

That was a picture under her account. A back view of a guy with puffy brown hair. He doesn’t know when his thumb initiates. It clicks the post and swipes left. More pictures are revealed, one by one.

The smile she wore while leaning on his shoulder, the way their hands were clasped so tightly, the way she touched his head, threading her fingers through his hair. The text of the post is plain: just two emojis — a dog and a hand, as if someone is petting a puppy. Music plays automatically from the post; he recognises it was the song she showed him when they hung out last time.

He understood her implication, honestly. The way she imagined her relationship would be, the intimacy she wanted from a golden retriever-type boyfriend, and the depth of her love could be. He got it. Totally. But he is the kind of bird that needs hibernation. A bird fearing the weight of the snow would wet its feathers, break its wings, and affect its flying direction. At least for now.

He knows she will probably move on one day; he knows he isn’t supposed to have any feelings since he is the one who said he didn’t want to be in a relationship; he knows he didn’t have any position to request her to do anything.

But why does his heart drop so rapidly? It hurts too much, overestimation.

Would that be better if he didn’t say that in advance? What would happen if he gave her, or them, more time to prove, to persuade himself to be secure enough to invest? What if he didn’t say anything and they continued to get attached?

When she asked him why he didn’t want a relationship, was he honest enough with her?

His thumb depicted the shape of her smile on the post. What can I do if you leave me when you see the hidden side of me? If I stop acting like the person you would like me to be, what will you do then? When fear drives me back into my cave, will I see you again outside, waiting in the same spot?

He doesn’t realise he’s talking to himself until a pigeon crashes into his window.

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