It started with a walk.
Not a planned one—just two people who happened to end up leaving the library at the same time, hearts awkwardly aligned and feet heading nowhere in particular. The campus was unusually quiet, the late afternoon sun casting golden shadows across the walkways. The kind of light that made everything look like a memory before it even ended.
"I should be reading," Funmi said, glancing up at the fading clouds.
"I should be writing," Emmanuel replied.
They didn't stop walking.
Their hands brushed once. Then again. And again. Until eventually, she laced her fingers into his like she'd done it a thousand times. Emmanuel didn't say anything. He just held on, as if afraid that if he opened his mouth, she'd vanish into the breeze.
"So," Funmi said playfully, "what are you writing these days? More dramatic love poetry about falling over in public?"
He chuckled. "No. These days, the poems fall in love before I do."
She looked at him sideways. "Is that supposed to impress me?"
"I don't know," he said. "Is it working?"
She didn't answer. Not with words. But her smile deepened, and that was more than enough.
They found themselves at the old faculty garden, surrounded by flowers that tried their best to bloom in spite of poor soil and neglected watering. A broken bench sat beneath the jacaranda tree. Emmanuel dusted it with his handkerchief like he was preparing a throne.
"Your seat, my queen."
"You do realize that handkerchief just came out of your back pocket?" she said.
"And that, my dear, is the seat of true sacrifice."
She laughed, but still sat.
There was a silence between them now, but it wasn't awkward. It was soft. Safe. A silence that felt like it had nothing to prove.
Funmi leaned her head on his shoulder.
"I don't usually do this," she whispered.
"Lean on strangers?" he asked gently.
"Fall for them."
His breath caught, but only for a second.
"You're not alone," he said. "I've been writing poems for years, but they've never had a face until now."
She looked up at him, her eyes reflecting the last light of the day. "You're such a romantic."
"Dangerously so."
And just like that, the space between them grew impossibly small.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't dramatic. It was the kind of kiss that started slow—uncertain, hesitant, like two people touching something sacred for the first time. His hand gently cupped her cheek, and her fingers curled around his shirt as if anchoring herself.
Just one kiss. Soft. Real. Like they were writing a sentence they both knew would change everything.
When they pulled away, neither spoke immediately.
It wasn't necessary.
Her forehead leaned into his. His thumb brushed her jaw. Everything else faded—assignments, classes, noisy roommates, the distant barking of campus dogs. Right now, there was only this.
"Wow," she murmured.
"That good?" he teased.
"Don't get cocky."
"I'm already cocky. I kissed the most beautiful girl on campus and lived to tell the tale."
She laughed again, but quieter now. Then, her expression softened.
"I think I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Of how easy this feels."
He nodded slowly. "Me too. But maybe that's how it's supposed to be. Maybe love isn't always fireworks and chaos. Maybe sometimes… it just walks beside you and holds your hand."
She didn't answer.
She just kissed him again.
And in that moment, with the sky turning indigo and the flowers leaning slightly toward them like quiet witnesses, it stopped being just a crush. It became something else.
Something undeniable.
Something worth the fall.