Benjamin kept his writing buried - beneath textbooks, in folders labeled "History Notes," inside old envelopes. It wasn't shame. Just a sense that his words needed safe soil before blooming.
But one poem slipped out.
He left it inside Christopher's sketchbook by accident. A single page, wrinkled and folded. Title: If I Were Braver.
It read:
I'd touch your cheek like dusk on the lake, and not apologize for needing you there. I'd say yes with my eyes, and maybe - maybe you'd say it back.
Christopher read it and didn't speak for a minute.
Then he walked up to Benjamin, holding the page like glass. "Is this yours?"
Benjamin flushed. "Don't read it too closely."
"I've already read it deeply."
And he folded it carefully, slipping it back toward Benjamin - not rejection, but reverence.
Later, the three sat together on the edge of Donny's porch swing. Benjamin told them about the poem. Not the words, but the feeling. That terrifying vulnerability.
Donny said, "I think you're brave already. You loved out loud."
Benjamin didn't respond. But the way he curled his knees tighter to his chest - content, thoughtful, real - was answer enough.