There is a strange space that forms when two people begin to understand each other without trying.
It isn't loud.
It isn't sudden.
It doesn't announce itself.
It just… settles.
After that afternoon, after the presentation that never happened, something between Anthon and I shifted quietly into place. Not dramatically. Not with a declaration or a defining moment. It was subtler than that, like furniture being rearranged in a room you thought you knew well, nothing missing, nothing added, yet everything slightly different.
I noticed it first in the mornings.
I would walk into class and instinctively glance toward the seats before even thinking about where I wanted to sit. If Anthon was already there, he would lift his head, meet my eyes, and give that small nod he always did- the kind that said I see you, without making a spectacle of it. If he wasn't there yet, I found myself saving the seat beside me without consciously deciding to.
It was strange. Comfortable. Almost automatic... Becoming normal.
We didn't talk much about the project anymore. It existed, yes- our notes growing thicker, pages filled with diagrams and scribbles, explanations rewritten again and again- but it was no longer the centre of our interaction. It had become an excuse, a reason that had already done its job.
Instead, our conversations drifted.
Sometimes it was about classes, lecturers who talked too much, courses that felt unnecessary, topics that made no sense no matter how many times we read them. Other times, it was about nothing at all. We talked about food we missed from home, about the best places to hide on campus when you needed quiet, about random observations that made no real difference to the world.
And yet, those were the moments that lingered.
Anthon had a way of listening that didn't interrupt. He didn't rush to respond or try to steer the conversation somewhere else. When I spoke, he stayed there with me, fully present, as though my words were enough on their own. That alone made him different from lots of people I knew.
I caught myself laughing more, not the polite kind, not the forced kind, but the sudden bursts that escaped before I could stop them. He'd say something completely unserious, something he probably didn't even realise was funny, and I'd laugh so hard I'd have to look away.
Elizabeth noticed it first.
"You smile differently now," she said one evening as we sat on our beds, the room dim except for the light from our phones.
I frowned. "What does that mean?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. Just… different."
Maryanne, ever observant, glanced up from her notebook. "You've also been spending more time outside," she added calmly. "And you've been checking your phone more than usual."
I opened my mouth to protest, then stopped.
I hadn't realised it was that obvious.
"It's nothing," I said finally. "Just… someone I'm working with."
They exchanged looks but didn't push it.
And that was the thing- no one was pushing anything. Not Anthon. Not my friends. Not even me.
The thread between us didn't feel demanding. It didn't pull or tug. It simply… existed.
Some afternoons, he'd walk me halfway to my hostel after class before peeling off toward his own. Other times, we'd sit under a tree with our books open, pretending to study while talking about everything except what was written on the pages.
There were days we barely spoke beyond a greeting, and days when conversation flowed so easily that hours slipped past unnoticed. Neither felt wrong.
I liked that.
I liked that there was no pressure to be anything other than what we were in that moment.
One evening, while we were seated on the hostel steps, he asked casually, "Do you always keep people at arm's length?"
The question caught me off guard.
"What makes you say that?" I asked, trying to sound unaffected.
He shrugged. "Just something I noticed. You're friendly, but… careful."
I thought about it for a moment. "I don't think it's careful," I said slowly. "I think it's intentional."
He nodded, as if that answer made sense to him.
"I respect that," he said.
That was another thing about him, he didn't challenge my boundaries. He acknowledged them, accepted them, and moved within them without complaint.
It made the space between us feel safe.
At night, our chats continued.
Sometimes they were short, a quick exchange of jokes, a complaint about the day, a shared laugh before sleep. Other nights, they stretched longer, voice notes replacing text as our fingers grew tired. I'd lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to his voice through my earphones, responding without thinking too much about what I was saying.
There was comfort in that rhythm.
Still, I told myself not to name it.
Because naming things changes them.
The thread between us remained gentle, almost unnoticeable if you weren't looking closely. It didn't demand attention. It didn't insist on growth. It simply glowed quietly, content to exist in the present.
And I let it.
I didn't ask where it was going.
I didn't ask what it meant.
I didn't ask what it would become.
I just stayed there, in the space between us, enjoying the warmth without wondering how long it would last.
At the time, that felt like enough.
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