His shoulders were too stiff.
His jaw was locked.
He heard every word.
I wanted to take him home.
I wanted to stand between him and every phone in that room.
Instead, I sat in the third row because he had asked me to.
"Whatever happens," he had said before joining his class, "stay where I can see you."
So I stayed.
Name after name was called.
The whispers grew whenever Aaron appeared in someone's camera frame.
Then, the principal finally announced him.
My heart stopped.
He walked across the stage.
The laughter followed.
He took his diploma.
Then, he turned.
But instead of walking toward his classmates or toward the photographers waiting near the side of the stage, Aaron came down the steps.
He started up the center aisle.
Toward me.
The room grew noisier.
Someone laughed again.
A girl nearby whispered, "Is he seriously doing this?"
Aaron kept coming.
When he reached the third row, he stopped directly in front of my seat.
For the first time that day, I saw his composure crack.
His eyes were wet.
"This is FOR YOU," he said quietly.
Then he swallowed.
"Both of them."
My breath caught.
Aaron reached into the pocket of the red dress.
He pulled out something small, pressed flat, and carefully wrapped in tissue paper.
The laughter continued for another few seconds.
Then, Aaron unfolded the paper.
The moment I saw what was inside, I stopped hearing the crowd.
