Some threads don't stay still.
They drift closer- slow, quiet, comfortable, until you forget they were once far away.
That's how a pull begins.
Not with force,
But with the soft gravity of attention.
Anthon became routine without announcing it.
There was no conversation about it. No agreement. No defining moment where we both decided that this was how things would be. It simply happened, the way habits form when you stop paying attention to their beginnings.
He started coming to class earlier than usual.
Not always, just often enough to be noticeable. When I arrived, his bag would already be placed carefully on the seat beside him, as though it had naturally ended up there. Sometimes he'd pretend it wasn't intentional, shrugging when I looked at it, claiming he just needed space. Other times, if he wasn't early enough, I'd see his friend sitting there instead, guarding the seats like it was a silent assignment he'd been given.
And every time, without fail, the seat would be empty by the time I got there.
Sometimes I'd catch him lifting his head the moment I stepped into the hall, like he'd been scanning the room without realising it. Our eyes would meet briefly, just long enough for recognition before he'd look away, pretending he hadn't been waiting.
Other days, he'd walk up beside me before I even noticed him, matching his steps to mine as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Good morning," he'd say casually.
And it would feel like it was.
I started sitting with him more.
Not because he asked.
Not because he insisted.
It was just… easier.
From that angle, I told myself, I could hear better. I could see the board more clearly. I wouldn't have to strain my neck or squint during long lectures. All reasonable explanations. All believable enough to silence the small voice that questioned why I always gravitated toward that side of the hall now.
During lectures, he'd lean toward me when something didn't make sense, whispering questions under his breath.
"What did she say just now?"
"Is this coming out?"
"Does this even make sense to you?"
Sometimes I'd answer.
Sometimes I'd just shrug.
And when I got bored- which happened more often than I liked to admit, I'd nudge him lightly with my elbow. He'd glance at me, amused, like he already knew why I was doing it.
Other times, when sleep tugged at my eyelids, he'd notice before I did.
"Hey," he'd whisper. "Wake up."
I'd blink at him, embarrassed, and he'd smile like it was nothing.
Outside the classroom, the routine continued.
If I mentioned I needed to buy something, he'd fall into step beside me without asking where I was going. We'd walk together across campus, talking about nothing important, the weather, the queue at the store, how unnecessarily long some lectures felt.
And more than once, when he's about to pay I would tell him I've paid....
Somehow I feel his awkwardness as I always brush him off saying "I've got it"
At first he tried to argue but later accepted that I like to do things myself.
There were days we walked all the way to the school gate together, slowing our steps without meaning to. We talked about random things, our previous schools, the strange habits we'd picked up there, the way I struggled with remembering people's names no matter how often I saw them.
He laughed at that, not unkindly.
"I don't know how you survive," he said once. "You greet people like you're guessing."
"I am guessing," I replied. "Most of the time."
He told me about how much he hated being stressed, how he shut down when things became overwhelming. I listened, not because the information felt important, but because the act of listening felt natural.
Nothing serious.
Nothing intense.
Just simple moments stitched together until they began to feel like something more.
At night, he would call.
Not every night, that would have made it obvious. But often enough to make me notice when he didn't.
Sometimes we talked about school, upcoming tests, unfinished assignments, lecturers who seemed determined to drain the life out of every class. Other times, he told me stories about his younger siblings, the chaos they brought into his life, the way responsibility sometimes felt heavier than it should.
Sometimes we joked.
Sometimes we complained.
And sometimes, when the night grew quiet and the hostel noises faded, his voice softened.
"Are you alright?"
"Hope you've eaten."
"Sleep early, okay?"
They weren't deep words.
He wasn't confessing anything.
He wasn't promising anything.
But they settled into me gently, like a blanket you don't realise you need until it's already there.
I didn't love him.
I didn't even think about loving him.
What I felt wasn't dramatic. It wasn't overwhelming. It didn't consume my thoughts or disrupt my routines.
I just liked the peace.
The way being around him didn't require effort.
The way conversations didn't feel forced.
The way silence didn't feel awkward.
It was normal. Predictable. Soft.
And that was exactly what made it dangerous.
Because pulls like that don't announce themselves.
They don't rush.
They don't demand.
They wait patiently, growing stronger with every shared moment, every quiet laugh, every unspoken understanding.
I didn't know then that some pulls lead straight into the centre of a storm.
I didn't know that comfort could be just as powerful as passion.
For now, everything felt fine.
And I let myself believe that was all it was.
That was the danger.
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