It was a dusty journal that reminded him. Benjamin found it in the back of his closet while looking for socks - a yellow leather-bound notebook, pages curled with age.
Inside were old poems. Sketches. A dried daisy from seventh grade. And tucked halfway through was a letter he never sent - to his first crush, Elijah.
I liked the way you hugged people with both arms, like it mattered. I liked that you wore purple even when people teased you. I liked you because you made me think being soft was beautiful.
Benjamin read it slowly, tears catching behind his eyes.
He never told Elijah. Moved towns before he could. But the memory lingered - the fluttering, the ache, the hope.
That evening, curled against Donny on the porch swing, he said, "I had a first love. His name was Elijah. He never knew."
Donny pulled him close. "He probably knew. People like that - they always do."
Christopher joined them, handing over a mug of cocoa. "Tell us about him?"
Benjamin did. Voice shaking, smile ghosting his lips.
And when he finished, Donny kissed his hand. "Every version of you deserves love. Even the one that wrote poems no one read."
Benjamin exhaled. "I'm loved now."
And yes - he truly, finally believed it.