These days life here feels like a room with no windows, air thick and unmoving, and it has been weeks since I sent Anna that note and she never came, never even looked at me in the corridors like she used to, and from what Rafael told me they are back together again, just like that, as if nothing ever trembled between them, as if the silence I handed her folded itself neatly into nothing, and I try not to care but the not caring sits heavy in my chest like something unfinished, like a word that refuses to leave the tongue. At least let me go find him so we can waste time in front of a computer and play some games to kill time, something mindless and glowing where winning or losing actually makes sense. "Oh Jesus fucking Christ," I mutter under my breath, barely sound, more exhale than voice, because there they are, actually together, sitting so close they almost merge into one shape, like lovers hiding in a private room except they are in the classroom, careless, exposed, and somehow invisible because everyone else is busy with their own noise, their own small worlds, their own survival. They should be the center of attention, but they are not, and maybe that's what hurts most: how ordinary their closeness looks from afar, how easily it exists without me, how the world does not question it. They look happy, and there is something restless in the way Rafael looks down at her, a focus that presses inward, and she laughs softly, breath catching at the edges of the sound, shy but warmed by it, and I know that laugh too well because every time she was with me she had that distracted energy, that trembling awareness, as if attention itself was a touch, and I used to think no girl could escape the gravity of my looks, I mean the way I see everything, the way I notice what others miss. Now I stand here pretending I am only passing through, but my eyes cling to them with the patience of an owl watching something inevitable unfold, silent, unmoving, alert. I tell myself I am only observing, storing, collecting, because that is what I have always done since I was small, keeping moments like pressed flowers between the pages of my mind, every whisper, every look, every shift in breathing, and maybe that is why sleep has always been a stranger to me, because nothing leaves once it enters and nothing fades the way it should. Rafael leans closer to her, and she tilts slightly toward him without thinking, the distance between them dissolving not in movement but in intention, and something sharp rises inside me, not anger, not exactly sadness, but a recognition that closeness can happen anywhere, even under fluorescent lights, even in a room full of people pretending not to see, and that realization stings more than I expected. The bell rings and the sound slices through everything, loud and mechanical, and I feel relief spill into my body like cool water because now I can leave before they notice me, before the moment becomes real through acknowledgment, before I have to exist inside it instead of outside it. I turn toward the door with deliberate calm, walking slowly so nothing betrays the speed of my thoughts, and as I step into the corridor the noise swallows me whole, voices overlapping, footsteps scattering, life moving forward without permission or pause, and I realize that watching is easier than belonging, remembering is easier than asking, and maybe that is why I keep choosing corners, shadows, edges of rooms, places where everything can be seen and nothing demands to be held, because if you never step fully into the light, you never have to explain why you were there in the first place.
On my way to the dorm I tried to confront myself but I stressed myself instead, because the more I attempted to name what I was feeling the more it slipped into something shapeless and sharp, something that refused to sit quietly inside a simple word like jealousy. The corridor stretched long and dim under the evening lights, footsteps echoing behind me, laughter drifting from somewhere near the stairs, and I walked through it all with my hands in my pockets, head slightly lowered, as if deep in thought about something academic or harmless, when in reality I was dissecting every second I had just witnessed in that classroom. I told myself to be honest, to strip the situation down to its bones and look at it without pride interfering, but honesty is uncomfortable when it points back at you. I don't want her, I insisted internally, but the statement felt rehearsed, and my mind delivered it too quickly, like an answer memorized before someone fully asked the question. If I don't want her, then why did my chest tighten when she laughed at something he said? Why did the way he leaned toward her feel like a quiet insult thrown in my direction? I kept walking, slower now, as if dragging the moment out would somehow exhaust it. I tried to reason with myself the way I always do, logically, calmly, analyzing the situation like a puzzle instead of an emotion. They were together before. They have history. Familiarity is comfortable. That doesn't mean I lost anything because I never had anything to begin with. But that last thought irritated me more than the rest. Never had anything? That's not true. I had her attention. I had those pauses when she would forget what she was saying and just look at me. I had the way her voice lowered when we spoke alone, the way she would stand a little closer than necessary. Those were not imagined. I know the difference between politeness and pull. So what changed? Did she get scared? Did I wait too long? Or was I simply a distraction while he was unavailable? The idea of being temporary makes my jaw tighten without me realizing it. I push the dorm door open and step inside, the air warmer, thicker, filled with the usual mix of conversation and movement, but I barely register it. I climb the stairs slowly, each step echoing louder than it should, and I feel this strange frustration building, not explosive, not dramatic, just steady and controlled, like something simmering under a lid. I don't like losing. That's the truth I can accept. Not because I crave her in some desperate way, but because I don't like the idea that she could choose differently when I was so certain she wouldn't. Maybe this has nothing to do with her and everything to do with my own certainty cracking. I have always trusted my reading of people. It's the one skill that never failed me. I see patterns. I see hesitation. I see attraction before it's spoken. And with her, I saw it clearly. Unless I saw what I wanted to see. That possibility unsettles me more than Rafael ever could. I reach my dorm room and pause before going in, leaning against the wall for a second, staring at nothing, replaying the image of them sitting close, her laughing, him looking down at her like he owned the moment. I feel something cold settle in my stomach, something that refuses to soften. I don't want her, I repeat again, but this time the sentence feels less convincing, more defensive. Maybe it's not about wanting her. Maybe it's about wanting to be chosen. And that is a weakness I don't like admitting to myself. I kept wondering why I had won her sister's heart, why she seemed to like me, why she leaned in that night in their home as if the world shrunk to just the two of us, and yet nothing felt satisfying. Not a single moment ever seemed enough, because it was never about what I had—it was about what I couldn't have. The longing that never reached fulfillment gnawed at me, sharp and quiet, like a shadow that followed every corner of my mind, reminding me that closeness with anyone else could never fill the space Anna left behind.
It's Saturday morning, but last night refuses to leave my mind, sticking to me like smoke I can't shake. She came to tell me we could meet after, maybe after she forgot about the note I sent her, maybe she never even knew it was from me, but that didn't matter now. What mattered was that she came. She walked into that old library and found me there, a quiet corner I thought only I knew existed. My chest still pounds when I think about it, the way her presence filled the space before I even realized it I could smell her deodorant, subtle, familiar, and it sent a shiver straight through me. I turned to search for her, and in that split second I fell into her. She was startled, eyes wide and breath caught, and I used the moment, pressed her to my chest, pretending it was by accident, but it wasn't. My heart was racing too fast to care about pretending. Her body pressed against mine, stiff at first, then slowly she calmed, her hands brushing against me until she realized she was hugging me back, and almost immediately shifted away, cheeks heating like I had set them on fire. The library's quiet walls were witnesses to a tension too heavy to name, a closeness that made every small movement feel like a declaration. We moved into the back room, the one no one ever bothers to enter, cramped and small, forcing us close in ways that made it impossible to pretend we weren't aware of each other. My brain scrambled for words, but there were none that mattered. I didn't actually know what to say. All I wanted was her, all I could think about was the way her weight pressed against me, the heat of her skin, the way she smelled, the way my body reacted before my mind could even catch up. I could feel my restraint slipping, every moment she was near making it harder to contain myself. I stepped closer, pressing my body into hers, testing the air between us, and then my hands moved to her waist, firm and intentional, pulling her just slightly closer. My lips brushed her neck, slow, teasing, a touch that lingered too long, but she fought me. Her hands shoved, her body twisting, her lips parting in a soft sound of protest. I wanted to stop, to hold back, but I couldn't. The heat of wanting, the rush of her proximity, the fact that she was actually here with me, was too much. I tried again, pressing into her, my hands daring to wander, but she resisted, strong, deliberate, and I felt both admiration and frustration twist together inside me. Books toppled from the shelves, sharp cracks of sound shattering the quiet like lightning, and I realized someone could hear us, could see us. Panic hit fast and sharp. I stepped back, letting my hands drop, stepping out of her space and away from the growing danger. I couldn't get caught here—not her, not me, not like this. Suspensions, warnings, angry teachers; it would ruin everything. My chest heaved, lungs filled with air I didn't realize I was holding, and I watched her straighten, smooth her hair back, cheeks still pink from heat and tension, eyes wide but somehow laughing, embarrassed at the rush of what had just happened. The moment that had felt infinite ended with nothing but silence, broken only by the settling of fallen books and the echo of our restrained breaths. We lingered a second longer in the cramped room, glances crossing, no words needed. My body still ached from the proximity, from the yearning I couldn't extinguish, from the brush of her skin that made everything else feel nonexistent. She shifted toward the door, a silent signal that the night had ended. I wanted to argue, to pull her back into that closeness, to steal one more moment, but I didn't. I couldn't. Not without consequences that would destroy us both. I stayed silent, nodded, letting her lead the way, watching the way her figure moved, the small bounce in her step even as her face tried to be serious. I couldn't stop thinking about how her presence lingered long after she left, how the memory of her weight against mine burned inside me. The rest of the night stretched in my mind, replaying over and over—the brush of her hands, the way her body yielded just enough to tease, the way her resistance made me want her more, the heat of every small touch, every accidental closeness magnified into a universe of meaning. And as I finally left the library alone, stepping out into the cold night air, I whispered to myself, almost a promise, that next term I would see her again. Next term, I would hold back less. Next term, I would make sure that closeness didn't end before it could mean everything it was supposed to.