The next morning, the sky hung low and colorless, as if the world had forgotten how to wake properly. Rain drizzled without urgency, dotting the stone path that led through the university's east courtyard. Ivy clung lazily to the ancient walls, and the scent of damp leaves rose from the ground like memory.
Emma sat on the edge of a bench near the library steps, hunched inside her wool coat, a paperback clutched in gloved fingers. Her breath fogged the air in little clouds, disappearing almost as quickly as they formed. She hadn't meant to arrive early, but she liked the quiet before the rest of the world caught up.
The bench was old — iron-limbed and dark green, its paint peeling in neat flakes. They'd claimed it during their first year, when they'd needed a place to escape crowded halls and professors with too many metaphors. Since then, it had become theirs. A small constant in a world that kept rewriting itself.
Footsteps clicked behind her — measured, familiar.
"I thought we agreed to start pretending to hate mornings," Andrew said, his voice soft with amusement.
Emma turned, smiled without teeth. "I'm here for aesthetic suffering."
He sat beside her, brushing droplets from his shoulders. He wasn't wearing a hood. He never did.
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the rain tease the path in front of them. Students passed occasionally, umbrellas raised like armor, eyes downcast. None stopped. None spoke.
Andrew tilted his head toward her book. "Something new?"
"Old," she replied. "Found it in the philosophy section by accident. You ever read Letters to a Young Poet?"
He nodded. "Rilke."
"Right. I like how he never answers questions directly. Just… bleeds gently into them."
Andrew smiled, his fingers drumming against the metal edge of the bench. "Like someone else I know."
Emma rolled her eyes, but didn't disagree. She flipped a page, then closed the book without reading further.
"Can I ask you something?" she said, watching the rain chase itself down a nearby drainpipe.
Andrew looked over, brow raised. "You always can."
"Do you think we're too comfortable?"
He blinked. "Comfortable like… friends who don't need to impress each other, or comfortable like old furniture no one wants to replace but probably should?"
Emma shrugged, the movement subtle beneath her coat. "Maybe both."
Andrew was quiet for a beat. "Why do you ask?"
"I don't know." She chewed the inside of her cheek. "It's just — sometimes I wonder if we've carved out this little world for ourselves, and now we're stuck in it. Like... maybe there's more out there and we're pretending this is enough."
Andrew's hands tightened slightly on his knees. He didn't let it show in his face. "Do you feel stuck?"
"No," she said quickly, then softer, "Not with you. Just… maybe I'm afraid I've stopped moving."
The words hit something in him he didn't have time to name.
He offered a half-smile, easy and warm. "Emma, if anyone was made to move, it's you. You change your major every semester."
She laughed. "This is my final switch. Literature to art history. Swear it."
"That's what you said about comparative religion."
"And before that, marine biology."
"You can't even swim."
"I could learn," she defended, eyes sparkling.
He leaned back against the bench, letting the rain kiss his hair. "You're allowed to figure things out as slowly as you want."
Emma turned to look at him. Really look. His face was still boyish in some ways — not soft, but familiar, as if she'd known it long before they'd ever met. His jaw carried a new shadow these days. His voice had deepened slightly since first year. But he was still Andrew.
She thought of how he always walked her home when it was dark. How he carried an extra pen just for her. How he never let her feel forgotten, even on days she forgot herself.
"Do you ever feel like something's coming?" she asked suddenly. "Not in a scary way — just like... you're on the edge of something that'll change everything, and you don't know if it's good or bad yet."
Andrew turned his head, rain sliding down his temple.
"Yes," he said, simply.
Emma didn't ask what he thought it was. Maybe she didn't want to know.
Instead, she nudged his shoulder with hers. "Wanna skip class?"
He stared at her like she'd grown wings. "You? Skipping?"
"Don't act so surprised. I'm capable of rebellion."
"Emma, you once apologized to a chair for bumping into it."
She laughed again, pulling her knees up onto the bench and hugging them. "Well, today I feel like making questionable decisions."
He stood slowly, offering her a hand. "Then let's be questionable."
They walked together through the rain-slicked streets, sharing his umbrella even though it barely covered them both. He tilted it more toward her without thinking. She didn't notice.
They passed familiar places — the bakery with almond croissants she liked, the antique shop that always smelled like violets, the little bookstore that sold more dust than novels. Emma pointed at things, made up stories, dragged him into hypothetical dreams.
Andrew laughed easily, followed her down side streets, into puddles, through moments that would later feel like distant music.
He wondered if she'd remember this day.
He wondered if he'd ever stop collecting ones like it.