At 7:13 a.m., Andy sent a cheerful message thanking me for the evening and asking if I wanted to go hiking that weekend. I smiled—his energy felt easy and genuine. Before I could reply, another message came through. Longer. Thoughtful.
He said he’d been reflecting on our conversation and felt grateful to have met someone who listened and laughed with him. He explained, gently and without drama, that kindness mattered so much to him because he’d lost his father young and helped raise his younger siblings. It taught him to be patient, to make people feel safe—even if he didn’t always talk about why.
Nothing about it felt heavy or rehearsed. Just honest.
As we kept talking, I noticed how intentional he was in small ways. He didn’t try to impress; he simply showed care. On our hike that weekend, it was there again—checking our pace, offering to carry my water bottle, stopping to point out tiny details most people walk past. His stories weren’t about achievements, but about growth, resilience, and learning to move through life with awareness.
At the summit, the sun dipped low and the trees glowed gold. Andy sat quietly beside me and said he knew this was new, but he hoped it could become something meaningful. No pressure. Just sincerity.
That’s when it clicked: kindness isn’t loud. It’s consistent. It shows up on time, pays attention, and grows slowly.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt ready to let something good begin.
