Benjamin Manchester was a boy of moments. He saw the world in fragments - sun on brick, dust in sunbeams, the way someone's laugh got quieter when they meant it more. He hadn't figured himself out yet, but he knew when something mattered.
The walk home with Donny and Christopher repeated the next day, like the world had given permission.
At one point, Benjamin's arm brushed Christopher's. Christopher didn't move away.
That was enough to spiral Benjamin into a thousand thoughts. He journaled about it later, trying to trace what it meant: attraction? curiosity? a soft bruise of wanting? He didn't know. But he wanted to find out, and that desire itself felt revolutionary.
In school, they sat closer. Their backpacks brushed. Donny lent Christopher a pen and their fingers touched. Christopher scribbled half a sentence before freezing. Benjamin, watching, smiled like he understood something Christopher hadn't said.
They weren't dating. They weren't anything. But Benjamin started to feel like maybe "anything" was the wrong word.
After school, the trio sat in the park until the sky went violet. Donny told them about his favorite constellation. Christopher sketched it in the dirt with a stick. Benjamin lay back and asked, "Wouldn't it be nice to be a dandelion? You get picked, loved, blown into the wind."
Donny replied, "You'd end up everywhere. That's kind of romantic."
Christopher said nothing, but his expression made Benjamin's heart squint and stretch.
Something was building between them. Not a crush. Not quite. Just something like touch - and meaning - and maybe, one day, love.