I came prepared.
Headphones in. Hoodie up. Eyes locked on the floor as I walked into the psychology building like I was late for war. Every step measured, careful, determined not to make a sound he could latch onto.
But, of course, there he was.
Leaning against the wall near the elevator, brown shirt pressed against his chest, sleeves rolled up just enough to highlight the lean strength in his arms. Hands casually in his pockets. That smirk curling on his lips like he already knew he'd won. Waiting. Predictable. Infuriating.
I didn't even pause. Just walked right past him, face buried in my phone like I couldn't see him, like he was invisible.
He fell in step beside me.
> "You know," he said, voice low but audible enough to make my teeth grit, "you're really bad at pretending I don't exist."
I didn't answer. Didn't even blink.
He nudged my arm, lightly, teasingly.
> "Ignoring me won't make me disappear."
Still nothing. I kept walking, shoulders tight, pretending the floor was the most fascinating thing in the world.
He sighed dramatically, almost theatrically.
> "Is this the silent treatment, or are you just practicing dissociation for class?"
I stopped.
Pulled off one headphone, letting the other hang in my ear.
> "Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?"
He grinned, just enough for me to feel the heat rise in my cheeks despite myself.
> "No, but I think about your voice often enough to make up for it."
I rolled my eyes, masking the flutter in my chest.
> "Get a therapist."
> "Already have one. She says I fixate on emotionally unavailable women."
> "Smart lady," I muttered, resisting the urge to look at him.
He matched my pace again but didn't speak for a moment. The usual smirk vanished, replaced with something quieter, subtler. The kind of calm that made me uneasy because it wasn't teasing. It was… focused.
Then his voice dropped, lower, slower.
> "You know, I didn't always talk like this."
That made me glance at him. His eyes were dark now, not playful, not mocking. Honest. Serious. For a second, he looked… human. Vulnerable, almost.
I slowed slightly, curiosity pricking at the edges of my irritation.
> "I used to be quiet," he said, voice careful, deliberate. "Careful. Too careful. Until I realized people only notice the loud ones."
I raised an eyebrow.
> "So you became loud?"
He shrugged, casual but deliberate.
> "I became impossible to ignore."
I couldn't stop the small, ironic smirk tugging at my lips. Impossible to ignore. Typical. Annoying. And strangely… infuriatingly accurate.
We stopped at the hallway corner, the crowd of students filtering past us like we weren't even there. For a moment, it was just us.
No banter. No noise. Just a shared pause, an unspoken understanding that stretched longer than it should have.
> "Why are you telling me this?" I asked, trying to keep my voice flat, unemotional.
> "Because, for some reason, I care if you notice."
I blinked, a jolt shooting through me. Care if I notice? That wasn't teasing. That wasn't smirking or playfully mocking me. That was… concern? Or possessiveness disguised as honesty? My stomach tightened, something stirring in me I didn't want to admit.
I shoved the headphone back in, deadpan, forcing my pulse to steady.
> "Congratulations. You've earned a slow clap."
His grin returned, softer this time, tempered with an edge of amusement that made my chest tighten.
> "Still pretending?"
> "Still existing," I said, straightening my hoodie, tugging the cuffs over my hands, trying to walk away like I wasn't trembling.
But this time…
I didn't block out the sound behind me. His footsteps followed, a measured echo in the hall. Not chasing, not mocking—just walking, close enough that I knew he was aware of every slight movement, every nervous fidget, every small tremor of my fingers as I adjusted my messy bun.
And I didn't delete the message he sent later. My phone buzzed discreetly in my pocket:
Unknown Number
You looked at me today. Progress.
I stared at it, heart hammering.
I knew I shouldn't feel pleased. I knew I shouldn't think about how his words made my chest tighten, how my lips curved against my will. I knew I shouldn't be thinking about him at all.
But I did.
I couldn't stop thinking about the way his brown shirt clung to his shoulders, how his hair was slightly tousled, how his eyes could flick from playful to serious in the blink of an eyelash.
I sank into my chair later that night, hoodie wrapped tighter around me, glasses slipping down my nose. I wanted to think I was safe—safe from his teasing, his smirk, the heat of his gaze—but I wasn't. Not for a second.
And then, my mind replayed the corner of the hallway, his words, the pause between us.
> Because, for some reason, I care if you notice.
I swallowed hard, fingers curling into the hoodie pocket.
I couldn't tell if it was obsession, attention, or something darker. Something… magnetic.
I grabbed my journal again, flipping past the last entry, pen poised over the page. But I couldn't write. Words were useless. They wouldn't capture how my pulse raced when I imagined him walking beside me, calm but dangerous, teasing but serious.
The room felt too small, too quiet. The air hummed with possibilities, tension, and the silent, unspoken pull between us.
> I'm supposed to hate him.
But I didn't.
Not entirely.
And maybe that was the scariest part.
I put my pen down, sat back, staring at the ceiling. The rain outside tapped softly against the window, a gentle, persistent rhythm that reminded me life went on—even if I was trapped in my thoughts about him.
Even if I wanted to be anywhere else, thinking about anyone else… I wasn't.
The phone buzzed again, discreet, just enough to make me jump.
Unknown Number
Tomorrow. Office hours. Don't make me wait.
I stared at it. My thumb hovered. I didn't reply. Not yet. Not now. But I didn't delete it.
Because part of me… wanted to.
And part of me wanted nothing more than to see that smirk in person.
> Progress, I thought, shaking my head.
Dangerous progress.