I flip the phone back over and return to the problem set.
He shouldn’t take up this much space in my head. He’s exactly the kind of guy I know to avoid, the kind I’ve looked past my entire life—loud, charming, unpredictable. A gravitational field all his own.
I turn to a clean page and try again. The symbols blur, rearranging themselves into the shape of his grin.
This is ridiculous.
A chair scrapes. My pulse jumps.
Theo’s head is bent, strands of hair falling over his forehead, a stack of books tucked against one hip. His glasses are slipping again; he pushes them up without noticing.
His presence is a muted sage-green in my mind—soft, steady. A color that settles instead of sparks.
He doesn’t push.
He doesn’t even notice the space.
A warm pull starts low in my stomach. Misplaced. Pathetic. I’ve had a crush on him for a year and still can’t form a coherent sentence around him.
“Hey, Sensei.” His voice is the exact shade I expect—gentle, balanced, calming. “Is this seat taken?”
My brain:No. Sit. Don’t leave.
My mouth: “Um. No. Go ahead.”
Smooth.
He sets his books down. I watch his forearm flex, geometric lines disappearing under his sleeve. My fingers itch to follow the pattern.
“You studying for 204?”
I nod. “Trying to.”
He laughs softly. A small amber ripple brightens across my vision. “Same. I swear Feldman invents new rules every time he talks about differential equations.”
“I think he does,” I say, relieved my voice sounds semi-human.
Theo flips open his notebook. I pretend to read mine but mostly just watch him from the corner of my eye. He leans over his work with total focus, brows drawn in, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek.
Unreasonably attractive. In a way that never asks anything of me.
I could suggest we compare notes. Or that we walk back together. Or just casually bring up our hypothetical children’s future SAT scores. Anything to keep this crush from silently dying in a corner.
Before I can gather courage, he looks up.
“Oh—actually,” he says. “Could I borrow your lecture notes from Monday? I spaced out during the last twenty minutes.”
My pulse kicks.
This is my opening. A tiny one, but still.
“Sure,” I say. “They’re…thorough.”
“I know.” His smile deepens. “That’s why I’m asking.”
It feels like my chest opens up. I hand him my notebook, our fingers brushing. The green around him softens, brightens.
He doesn’t react—not badly, not well. Just...nothing. I always forget that comfort doesn’t look back.
