Some things don't change all at once,
They shift. Quietly.
Like furniture rearranged in the dark.
You don't trip immediately,
But you feel it when you walk.
That's how us became real.
Not with an announcement.
Not with clarity.
But with repetition.
Anthon walked me to class every morning now.
Not because I asked.
Not because he insisted.
It just… happened.
If I left the hostel early, he was already outside. If I stayed back, he waited. Sometimes leaning against the railings. Sometimes scrolling through his phone like he wasn't counting time.
People noticed.
They always did.
"Good morning," someone would say with a smile that lingered too long.
"Hi Lauren," another would add, eyes flicking to Anthon automatically.
As if my name now required context.
He held my hand more openly. Not tightly. Not possessively. Just enough for it to be seen. Enough for it to be understood.
I didn't pull away.
But I didn't lean in either.
There's a difference between accepting something and belonging to it. I lived somewhere in the middle, comfortable, unsure, floating.
We sat together in lectures. Shared snacks. Complained about assignments. He texted me during the day just to ask what I was doing, what I'd eaten, if I was tired.
It was… nice.
That was the word everyone liked to use.
"Anthon is nice."
"You look nice together."
"It's nice seeing you happy."
Happy.*
I didn't correct them.
The routine didn't feel forced. It didn't feel wrong either. It just existed.
And so did we.
That was the strange part.
There was no rush in it. No urgency. No deep conversation about us or where we were going. No promises whispered in the dark, no plans drawn too far into the future.
We moved through the days like two lines running beside each other, close enough to touch, but never quite crossing into something heavier.
Anthon talked easily. Too easily sometimes.
He spoke about his day, his friends, his frustrations, the way the school stressed him out. He mentioned plans casually, things he might do, places he could go.
Not with me in mind exactly, but not excluding me either.
Everything he said hovered on the surface, light and unanchored.
I noticed it, even if I didn't name it yet.
When people teased him about me, he laughed. It was all smiles and easy words and familiarity that looked convincing from the outside.
From a distance, we made sense.
Up close, it felt thinner.
Sometimes we talked about school.
Sometimes about nothing at all.
Sometimes there were pauses, comfortable on his end, heavier on mine.
"You're quiet," he'd say.
"I'm just tired," I'd reply.
He'd hum softly, like he accepted that answer easily.
But tiredness wasn't the truth.
The truth was harder to explain.
Because nothing was wrong.
And when nothing is wrong, you start wondering why something still feels off.
***
Days passed.
Weeks folded into routine.
The doubts didn't arrive as thoughts. They came as pauses.
As moments where my mind drifted elsewhere while he spoke.
As seconds where I wondered, briefly, how long this version of us could last without changing shape.
By the time people stopped whispering about how it started, they began speculating about how far it would go.
"Those ones are serious."
"They won't last? No, they will."
"Anthon doesn't play."
I watched myself become a story others were talking about. Doubtful. Unsure.
Life moved.
Then one afternoon, it interrupted itself.
I had been sent to the clinic for something minor - nothing serious, just enough to be inconvenient.
The problem was that I still didn't know my way around campus properly. Directions twisted easily in my head, buildings blending into one another until everything looked the same.
I stood near the walkway, turning slowly, trying to match what I saw to the vague instructions I'd been given.
"That's not the clinic," a voice said calmly behind me.
I turned.
She was taller than me, older too or at least she carried herself like someone who had lived longer inside her own confidence. Her posture was straight, her expression neutral, her eyes assessing without being curious.
"I know," I said, a little embarrassed. "I just… don't know where it is."
She nodded once, like that confirmed something she already suspected.
"I'm going that way," she said. "You can come along."
Her tone wasn't unkind. It also wasn't warm. It was matter-of-fact, like helping was simply the logical thing to do.
We walked side by side.
She didn't ask many questions. Just my name, my level. I returned the courtesy, learning hers was Tessa, a classmate of mine too.
She spoke with certainty, correcting herself mid-sentence when necessary, explaining things without checking whether I needed the explanation.
It wasn't rude.
But it wasn't gentle either.
At the clinic gate, I thanked her.
She hesitated, then said, "If you ever need a quiet place to read… your hostel has a reading room, right?"
"Yes."
"I've been looking for somewhere less distracting. Just a place to sit and study. I won't be in the way."
The request sounded reasonable.
Harmless.
I didn't see a reason to say no.
So I gave her my number. She gave me hers.
And just like that, she stepped into the edge of my life.
When I mentioned it to Elizabeth and Maryanne later, it felt insignificant.
Someone needing a place to read.
Someone older.
Someone temporary.
We didn't notice when she started coming more often.
At first, it was just afternoons. She'd sit quietly, books spread neatly, correcting our posture with a look, offering advice that sounded helpful but carried an undertone of I would have done this differently.
Gradually, she began staying longer.
Asking more questions.
Commenting more freely.
She didn't announce herself.
She simply became present.
Anthon noticed her once, briefly, and dismissed her just as quickly. "Your friend?" he asked casually.
"Not really," I said.
And that was true.
By the end of the week, the room felt fuller. Not crowded, just altered.
Like furniture had been moved slightly without asking.
I and my roommates found it nice to welcome a new member in our midst.
And it looked like she could really use the help out of her own room.....then she finally moved in.
Somewhere between lectures, late conversations, surface-level affection, and a new presence that had arrived without noise, I felt it again...
That subtle tightening in my chest.
Not fear.
Not regret.
Just the quiet awareness that things were shifting again.
And I still didn't know whether to lean into it
Or brace myself
For what would follow.