The night of the Love Gala left more than glitter and music in the air. it left questions, butterflies,
and a pair of quiet smiles as Kwabena and Manda walked side by side under the dim campus lights,
away from the auditorium and towards something neither of them had defined yet.
"My Place?"
Outside the South Campus roundabout, Kwabena hesitated.
"Manda," he began, voice gentler than usual, "I was thinking… if you're not in a hurry, maybe
you could come over? Just to chill. Talk. No quizzes, I promise." She gave him one of her classic long glances.
"You live off-campus, right? No roommates jumping in with prank videos?"
"No roommates. No surprises. Just my maths posters and a fridge full of Sobolo."
She smiled.
"Let's go. But only because I like Sobolo."
His place was tidy almost too tidy. It had that "TA trying to impress" vibe: scented candles, throw pillows arranged with military precision, and a playlist that said, I googled R&B for vibes.
He handed her the Sobolo, and they sat side by side on the couch, feet barely touching.
At first, they talked about the gala, the music, and the horrible fried rice.
Then it got quieter.
Then she asked:
"Were you always this… gentle?"
Kwabena looked at her. Really looked.
"Not always. But with you, I've learned to pause. You don't rush. You think. You listen. That… slows me down in the best way."
Manda took a sip of Sobolo, then leaned her head lightly on his shoulder.
"That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in UEW.
The Almost Moment
He turned to her, their faces now inches apart.
His hand found hers not forcefully, just curious and soft.
No one spoke.
There was no punchline, no one-liner, no flirt.
Just warmth, a racing heart, and a growing silence that said: "This is new." Then she whispered:
"We don't have to define anything tonight. Let's just… be."
And in that moment, nothing else mattered not course codes, not TA rules, not campus gossip.
Just two people in the calm after laughter, finding comfort in closeness.
They stayed that way till sleep caught them tangled up under a throw blanket, the quiet whirr of the fan the only witness.