Three days passed.
No words.
No texts.
No second glance.
But they noticed each other.
Not obviously. Not in ways anyone else would catch. But it was there—in those half-second flickers across a room, those brief moments when their steps passed in the quad or when they sat in the same lecture hall but five rows apart.
Elena didn't approach.
She didn't know what she'd even say if she did. "Hey, remember when I cried in front of you and you didn't act weird about it? Thanks for that." No. Too raw. Too soon.
Instead, she let it breathe.
But something had shifted in her. A strange sort of awareness now followed her around campus, like the hum of a song stuck in her head. It wasn't just that she'd cried. It was that someone had witnessed it and hadn't tried to make it smaller.
He hadn't acted like it made her weak. Or dramatic. Or messy.
He just let it be.
She'd never realized how rare that was.
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Alexander hadn't spoken about her to anyone—not his roommate, not the guy he sometimes walked with from class to class. It wasn't a secret. He just didn't think the moment was something anyone else would understand.
And maybe he didn't want it diluted by someone else's interpretation.
He still saw her, here and there. Always surrounded. She had a magnetic sort of presence—light footsteps, purposeful movement, like she knew exactly where she was going and why. But now, he noticed the pauses too. The way she'd pull at her sleeve absentmindedly when lost in thought. How her smile sometimes ended just before it reached her eyes.
Those little tells.
He'd spent most of his life studying people from a distance—learning how to interpret intention, mood, truth. It wasn't about judgment. It was about understanding the parts people tried to hide.
Elena hid a lot more than most people realized.
But he didn't stare. Didn't hover. Didn't try to crack the mystery.
He just… noticed.
Because some things are meant to be noticed first before they're touched.
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Thursday afternoon, Elena sat on a bench near the Fine Arts building, finishing a protein bar between classes. Her bun had come undone, and strands of hair framed her face in a way that looked almost accidental. Her feet were sore. Pointe rehearsals had left a raw spot behind her heel, and she'd been limping slightly all day—nothing obvious, but enough for her to feel a little off-balance.
Across the courtyard, Alexander walked past without a word, earbuds in, hood pulled low over his head.
He didn't look up.
But Elena felt him. Like a shift in the air pressure. Her eyes tracked him without meaning to. Just a glance.
And for a moment, she wanted to get up.
Say something.
But her body didn't move.
Because saying anything meant opening a door that hadn't been knocked on yet. And she didn't know what was on the other side.
Instead, she let him walk.
Watched until he rounded the corner, then exhaled like she'd been holding her breath without realizing.
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That night, Alexander added another design to his sketchbook. Not a full piece. Just a single, curved line—a small, downward shape. Delicate. Subtle.
It reminded him of the way her voice had cracked for half a second the night she told him what Elara said. He hadn't forgotten that moment.
He didn't need to draw her to remember her.
He didn't need to see her every day to feel her edge creeping into his thoughts.
But still, he wondered:
If they spoke again, would it be as easy as before?
Or had that moment already passed?
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They were orbiting each other now.
Not pulled close, not pushed away.
Just... held in the gravity of something quiet.
Something unspoken.
Something waiting.
And neither of them knew how long it would stay that way.
But both could feel it.
And that was enough—for now.