I didn't look back.
Not once.
I could feel her eyes on me the whole time—wide, confused, definitely flustered—but I kept walking down the hall like I hadn't just sat through an hour of legal jargon just to hand her that stupid overpriced coffee.
Like I hadn't gotten up an hour early to find the only café that opened before six.
Like I hadn't checked twice if they still had vanilla oat milk.
I wasn't sure when I became the kind of guy who remembered her order down to the sweetness level. Or the kind of guy who would sit through a class I wasn't enrolled in just to watch her from a row behind.
But I did.
I did all of that.
And the worst part? It didn't even feel weird.
It felt… normal.
Natural.
Like walking her to class, letting her steal my hoodies, getting dragged into her rants, watching her laugh until she snorted—all of that had carved itself into my schedule so seamlessly, I didn't realize when it started meaning something more.
I turned the corner, finally out of sight, and let myself smile.
Just a little.
Nothing big.
But still—
She was jealous yesterday.
And today she was quiet, sipping black coffee like it didn't taste like battery acid, still avoiding my eyes. And now… now she was holding the cup I brought her like it was a confession.
Maybe it was.
Or maybe I'm just going crazy.
Either way, I know one thing:
I missed her noise.
And if I have to sit through every 6 a.m. class just to hear her talk my ear off again—
I'll be there. Front row. No questions asked.