It began with the little things.
A pack of her favorite biscuits on her desk. A carefully folded note with a doodle that looked suspiciously like her. A small bottle of perfume she'd once admired in passing, now tucked into her bag with a tiny bow.
At first, she thought it was a prank. Then a coincidence. But it kept happening—consistently, quietly, without fanfare.
And it wasn't just her.
Imade noticed it too.
"He got me a pen," she said one day, eyes wide with surprise. "Like, not just a pen… the pen. The one I've been hunting for weeks."
She turned to her with a growing smile. "It's him, isn't it?"
She didn't answer, but her heart knew.
His name was Israel.
He wasn't loud. Wasn't particularly flashy or the kind to steal a room with charm. But he paid attention. To small things. To comfort. To what made people feel seen.
And somehow, he'd seen her.
He sat two rows behind them in class, always scribbling notes with focused brows and sleeves slightly rolled. They'd spoken only a few times, mostly academic stuff. But there was a quiet sincerity in the way he looked at her—like she wasn't just a face in the crowd.
And that felt new.
One afternoon, he walked up to them outside the cafeteria, holding out a small paper bag.
"I remembered you said you like these," he said with a slight, almost shy smile.
She peeked in and gasped. Chin-chin, the exact kind her late aunt used to make.
"How did you—"
"You said it once," he shrugged. "A while ago."
Imade raised an eyebrow the moment he left.
"I like this one," she whispered. "He's soft. Like a warm playlist."
She laughed. She didn't want to admit it, but she liked him too. Not in a butterflies-and-fireworks kind of way. Not like Zayn.
But in a steady, calm way that felt… safe. And that scared her just as much.
Because she didn't know how to accept something real.
For reasons she couldn't quite explain, she and Zayn never really talked anymore.
Not like before.
They were cool. Friendly, even. Shared the occasional joke, bumped into each other between classes, nodded knowingly when lecturers said something ridiculous. But they never revisited the past. Never touched the thing between them that once felt like the beginning of something.
It was like standing in the same room with a song you used to love—but never pressing play again.
And that should've made things simpler. Cleaner.
But nothing ever really was.
Because just as Israel started to grow into something that could've felt safe, something… surfaced.
Imade heard it first—she always did.
"Did you hear?" she said one day, her voice low but eyes wide. "Israel has a girlfriend. She's in that private school nearby."
Her heart stuttered.
"No, he doesn't," she said automatically. "He would've said something."
Imade shrugged. "I thought so too. But the rumor is, she kind of chased him. Gave him gifts, showed up at his hostel, made a whole thing out of it. Some say he wasn't really interested but didn't want to be rude."
The words sank in slowly, painfully.
She didn't know what to believe. But she did know the way Israel looked at her. The way he remembered tiny details. The quiet glances. The way her name sounded softer when he said it.
That wasn't fake.
Was it?
Later that week, she caught him walking out of the library, earbuds in, head down. Her stomach twisted.
They talked, like always. He offered her a drink from his bottle. He smiled that smile.
But the words sat heavy on her tongue.
Do you have a girlfriend?
Is she real? Are you happy? Am I just… another almost?
But she didn't say any of it.
And when he looked at her, like she was the one thing worth noticing in a crowded world, it only made it harder.
Because how do you question someone who makes you feel seen—when the truth might mean they never really chose you?
It didn't stay a whisper for long.
Rumors have a way of multiplying, and soon it wasn't just quiet gossip—it was confrontation.
Israel's girlfriend had found out. About her.
Not that there was anything official to find out. No love notes. No kisses behind buildings. Just small, innocent things. A shared bag of snacks. A soft laugh between lectures. A glance that maybe lasted a little too long.
But in the right hands, even the harmless becomes scandalous.
She showed up on campus one afternoon, loud and angry.
"She thinks I don't see it?" she'd shouted at Israel, loud enough for a few onlookers to pause mid-step. "You think I'm stupid?"
He looked stunned, confused—maybe even embarrassed. But he didn't argue. He didn't defend her.
And that hurt more than she expected.
Later, when the dust settled, Imade filled her in.
"She's been cheating," Imade whispered. "Like, seriously cheating. On Israel. With someone at her school."
She blinked. "How do you know?"
"She told her roommate. Said she's 'finally embracing who she is.' She's bi, and apparently… not that into Israel anymore."
She didn't know what to feel.
Pity? Relief? Maybe a little selfish satisfaction?
But none of it changed the fact that Israel looked… broken.
And though they talked once after, just briefly—something in his tone said not now. Not because he didn't care, but because his heart was learning how to trust again. Just like hers had to.
So for once, she chose herself.
She smiled at him gently one day and said, "It's okay. Let's just… take things slow. Let's not rush into anything we'll regret."
He nodded, a soft, grateful look in his eyes.
And for the first time in a long time, she meant it.
She didn't need a label, or fireworks, or a whirlwind. She just wanted peace. To breathe. To laugh. To heal.
And maybe, just maybe, to discover what it means to love without losing herself.
She was finally breathing again.
Her walks home with Imade had become lighter. Laughter came easier. Her heart wasn't racing around stolen glances or confused whispers anymore.
She even caught herself humming one evening, as the two of them shared fried yam and ketchup under a dusky sky.
"You're glowing," Imade teased.
She smiled. Not because she disagreed—but because for once, she believed it too.
That night, as she lay on her bed, scrolling through photos and half-written essays, a message popped up.
Unknown Number:
"Heard you've moved on. I hope he makes you smile like I did, even if it was just for a moment."
Her breath caught.
No name. No follow-up.
But she knew exactly who it was.
And for the first time in weeks, her heart didn't feel so sure anymore.