Amelia walked through the crowded hallway of the Communications building, earbuds in but no music playing. They were just a shield — a way to avoid conversation. The floor was streaked with sneaker marks and spilled coffee, and the air carried a mix of old paper and cheap deodorant.
She entered the editing room, tossed her backpack into the corner, and turned on the computer. The screen blinked slowly, loading as if it, too, were tired.
While she waited, she opened a container of apple slices and chewed without much interest.
On the screen, the week's project: video cuts, soundtrack, color adjustments. All technical. All correct. But none of it felt alive.
She clicked on a random scene and let the video play. A testimony about anxiety. A shaky voice. A lost gaze.
"You seem more sure of yourself."
Thomas's words echoed softly in her mind. She rested her chin on her hand and stared at the screen without really seeing it.
He had said it so naturally. As if he could see things she wasn't even sure still existed.
A classmate entered the room, nodded in greeting, and started fiddling with cables. Amelia returned the nod with a brief smile, but her mind was elsewhere.
"You still make that same face when you're overthinking."
She laughed quietly to herself. It was true. And he remembered.
She unlocked her phone without meaning to. The conversation with Thomas was still at the top. Last message: "You're not easy to forget."
She locked the screen again, took a deep breath, and returned to the project.
But now, the cuts felt less cold. The soundtrack sounded more human.
Maybe it was him. Or maybe it was her, trying to remember that there was still a version of herself that didn't need to disappear.
Amelia left the editing room, her thoughts still tangled in memories of Thomas. The hallway was busier now — voices, hurried footsteps, backpacks bumping into each other.
She turned the corner and, with no time to dodge, bumped into someone.
"Whoa, my bad!" said the guy, catching his notebooks before they hit the floor. "Running from someone, Duarte?"
She recognized the voice before the face.
Bruno Viana. Football team shirt, hair always damp like he'd just left practice, easy smile, and that look that made people notice him — and sometimes, he was right to think so.
"Not running," Amelia said, adjusting her backpack strap. "Just distracted."
"Distracted or thinking about me?" he teased, with that signature glint in his eyes.
She laughed, but didn't give in.
"I think you're mixing up the categories. I'm post-production. You're background talent."
"Background talent that scores goals, just saying," he winked.
Amelia shook her head, already walking away.
"Good luck with the championship, Bruno."
"Thanks. If you want to watch, we've got a game Saturday. Or we could schedule a private training session," he said, walking backward for a few steps, still looking at her.
She didn't answer. Just kept walking, a soft smile tugging at the corner of her mouth — not for Bruno, but for the memory of Thomas, playing like a quiet song in the back of her mind.
"You're not easy to forget."
Bruno was noise. Thomas … he was the kind of silence that felt like home.
And in that moment, she knew exactly which one made sense.
Amelia entered the classroom and chose a seat by the window. The sunlight touched the edge of the desk, and she rested her elbow there, feeling its gentle warmth.
"You bumped into Bruno?" asked Clara, sitting beside her with a curious smile.
Amelia raised an eyebrow.
"You saw?"
"I saw and heard. He's got that smile like he thinks he's irresistible."
Amelia chuckled, rummaging through her pencil case.
"He's… predictable."
"And you're mysterious. That makes him even more interested."
Amelia didn't respond. She just looked at her phone on the desk, like she was waiting for something she wouldn't admit.
Clara noticed.
"Thomas?"
Amelia hesitated, then nodded with a quiet smile.
"He messaged me yesterday. We talked a little."
"And?"
"And it was nice. Simple. Light. Like I could just be me."
Clara smiled but didn't push. The professor entered, started talking about visual storytelling, and the students opened their laptops with the energy of people who'd rather be anywhere else.
Amelia tried to focus, but her mind wandered.
Her phone buzzed.
She glanced at it discreetly.
Thomas: "Saw a vending machine today. No tuna. Disappointed."
Amelia bit her lip to keep from laughing.
She typed quickly:
Amelia: "You didn't whisper. Rookie mistake."
Clara glanced sideways, curious.
"He made you smile like that?"
Amelia laughed softly.
Clara scribbled in her notebook, pretending to pay attention, but her eyes kept drifting back to Amelia.
"You know he likes you, right?" she said quietly.
Amelia didn't answer right away. She was still staring at her phone, the conversation with Thomas open.
"Bruno is… intense," she said finally.
Clara laughed.
"Intense is just another word for 'available and hot.' And he's both."
Amelia smiled, but didn't commit.
"He's loud."
"And sometimes you need loud. Not everything has to be silence and depth. A girl can have her cake and eat it too."
If only she knew…
Amelia looked at Clara, amused.
"You're saying I should go out with Bruno and keep talking to Thomas?"
"I'm saying you can live. You can feel. You can choose. You don't have to hide behind one kind of feeling."
Amelia thought for a moment. Bruno was easy. Thomas was complex. And she… she was somewhere in between, trying to figure out what still made sense.
"I don't know if I can be light with someone who doesn't really see me."
Clara shrugged.
"Sometimes lightness comes later. Or it just shows up to remind you that you can still smile, even without a reason."
Decide which flavor first? No — she'd tasted plenty. And the only one she truly wanted…
Amelia looked at her phone again. The screen was dark, but she knew Thomas was still there, on the other side — like a light left on in another room.