She had slept little.
She woke up drowsy, her body still heavy.
For a few seconds she lay still.
New Year's Eve had stayed on her like a smell that wouldn't go away.
The darkness of the terrace.
The distant lights of the city.
Fireworks exploding above the rooftops, reflected in the windows.
The cold that stung her hands.
The sharp sound of firecrackers under her feet.
And him.
Too close.
His face next to hers.
His warm breath on her temple.
His hands on her hips to hold her steady when she had almost lost her balance.
The way he had pulled her toward him, without thinking.
His chest against her cheek.
His voice low, very close to her ear.
That word that was about to come out - and hadn't.
Her heart had beaten too hard.
She shifted under the covers, turned onto her side abruptly.
Her face warm, for no reason.
She lay still, with that feeling still on her, alive, as if it had just happened.
Then she saw the light.
A pale blade under the door.
The living room.
She got up slowly, still half asleep, and went out.
He was in the kitchen.
Leaning against the table.
A cup between his hands.
His hair disheveled.
His shoulders relaxed.
Calm.
As always.
As if the night didn't exist.
She stopped in the doorway.
Watching him.
The steam rising slowly from the cup.
The clean profile.
The same steady presence as always.
And yet her face was still burning.
After a moment he made a small movement.
Not toward her.
Just his head, barely, as if he had sensed something behind him.
She held her breath.
He turned just enough.
Saw her.
His gaze dropped naturally.
To her neck.
To her shoulder.
To the neckline of her shirt that had slipped down on one side.
"You're exposed."
Said quietly.
Without tone.
Without anything else.
She followed his gaze.
Understood.
The heat rushed to her face all at once.
She turned abruptly, pulling her shirt up over her shoulder.
"Ah-"
A half-embarrassed sound.
"Thank you."
He took a sip of coffee.
As if nothing had happened.
And precisely because of that
her heart made a strange jump.
That feeling from the night had stayed on her.
For that reason, a little later, she found herself on the balcony with the laundry basket.
Cold air on her hands.
Something simple to do.
Hanging clothes out.
Not thinking.
She picked up a piece from the pile.
Black.
Large.
His t-shirt.
She shook it slightly to open it up... and stopped.
It smelled.
Not of detergent.
Of him.
Her fingers closed around the cotton without realizing it.
Her heart made the same jump as before.
She looked at it for a moment.
The long sleeves.
The soft fabric.
The wide shape.
The door behind her opened.
She turned abruptly.
He was there.
His gaze dropped immediately to the t-shirt in her hands.
Her face warmed instantly.
"I was hanging laundry."
"I can see."
Simple.
Normal.
As always.
She nodded slightly, for no reason.
Turned the t-shirt around and hung it up, more slowly than necessary.
The fabric swayed gently in the air between them.
And for a moment she had the strange feeling
of having been caught in something
too personal
without even knowing why.
Days later, with the holidays over, the university slowly returned to its noisy normality.
The corridors filled again with footsteps, overlapping voices, backpacks bumping into chairs and doors.
The cold morning air came in through half-open windows, bringing with it that sense of beginning that every January seemed to carry.
She walked beside her friends, listening more than talking.
The routine had returned - lectures, notes, quick coffees - and with it that distracted lightness of everyday conversations.
In front of the lecture hall, a small group of girls was talking in low voices.
- That was the one from the party, right?
- Yeah... the elegant one.
- Good-looking, sure... but god, what a wall.
A muffled laugh.
- It's like if you talk to him you'd freeze.
Her friends exchanged an amused glance.
- True though - said one - I mean... cute, but completely unapproachable.
- Yeah, one of those you just look at from a distance.
She started to smile, but what came out was a kind of uncertain grimace.
"He doesn't seem that way to me..."
She said it quietly, almost without thinking.
Her friends turned toward her.
"No?"
"I don't know..." she lowered her gaze for a moment "he just seems like someone who wants to be on his own."
There was a brief silence.
"Which is exactly what we said," one of them laughed.
She flushed slightly, realizing she had exposed herself more than necessary.
"Yeah, I mean... exactly. I don't know."
She shrugged, as if to close the conversation there.
At that moment someone passed in the corridor.
A simple movement, unhurried.
Him.
He wasn't looking at anyone.
He wasn't looking for anyone.
He walked with that natural distance that seemed to exist even in the middle of a crowd.
The conversations around him didn't stop, but they lowered slightly, the way they do when someone passes that everyone notices without wanting to admit it.
Her friends followed him with their eyes for a second.
"There - " murmured one - "exactly like that."
She said nothing.
She glanced at him only briefly, almost by accident.
And it was a very brief thing.
One detail among many.
Then he passed the lecture hall and continued down the corridor, toward the exit that led to the courtyard.
"Come on, let's go in," someone said.
She nodded right away, perhaps too quickly.
And as she crossed the doorway, she realized she still had that strange feeling on her -
not interest,
not curiosity,
just the vague perception of someone who existed at the edges of her own space.
As if she had really noticed him only in that moment.
She entered the classroom with her friends, still talking quietly.
She sat near the window, dropping her backpack beside the chair.
While listening to the conversation, her gaze slipped outside.
In the side courtyard, against the school wall, there he was.
One shoulder leaning against the bricks.
A cigarette between his fingers.
The smoke rising slowly in the cold morning air.
From the right side of the courtyard a girl approached.
Uncertain steps.
Her hands clasped around a closed envelope.
She stopped in front of him.
He barely lifted his gaze from the cigarette.
Looked at her.
Waiting.
The girl breathed in slowly, unable to really hold his eyes.
"I..."
She stopped, swallowed.
"I'm not doing this because of the party."
A short breath.
"I noticed you right away."
She held out the envelope with both hands.
"In here is what I feel..."
Her eyes dropped to the ground.
"You don't have to give me an answer."
More quietly:
"I just wanted... to tell you."
He took the envelope without hurrying.
Stayed silent.
He looked at her.
Calm.
Neutral.
The girl nodded to herself, as if that silence was enough.
"Sorry..." she murmured.
Then she turned and walked away quickly along the wall.
He stayed where he was.
The cigarette between his fingers.
The envelope in the other hand.
In the classroom, by the window, she didn't move.
Her fingers still on the edge of the desk.
Her gaze fixed outside.
He didn't look at the envelope.
Didn't turn it over.
Didn't open it.
He kept smoking.
One beat after another, slow.
When the cigarette was done, he stepped away from the wall and took a few steps to the bin.
Let the cigarette fall.
Immediately after, in the same motion, he let the envelope fall too.
Closed.
Her fingers tightened slightly on the wood of the desk.
He started walking toward the courtyard exit.
Without turning back.
"Oh?" said a friend beside her.
She blinked, as if surfacing.
She pulled her eyes away from the window.
"Nothing."
She turned toward her desk.
The lecture was about to begin.
The lecture ended among scraping chairs and voices rising in volume.
Her friends were already talking about other things - notes, schedules, lunch.
She wasn't.
She stayed seated a few seconds longer.
Her notebook open.
Her pen still between her fingers.
In front of her, the window.
The exact spot where a little while ago he had been leaning against the wall.
The cigarette.
The girl.
The letter.
She replayed the gesture.
Simple.
Clean.
The envelope in the bin.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the pen.
Not sadness.
Not anger.
Just a kind of thin pressure in her chest.
Inexplicable.
She stood up.
Gathered her things with automatic movements.
Leaving the classroom, for a moment she looked for him in the corridor.
He wasn't there.
And that thing stayed.
On her.
Without a name.
In the afternoon they studied in the same space.
She at the table. Notebooks open. Highlighter between her fingers.
He on the other side. A thick book. Back straight. Still.
An hour passed.
She changed position three times. Crossed her legs. Stretched them out. Got up to get water. Came back.
He had barely moved.
Only one page turned. Slowly.
She lifted her eyes. Looked at him.
His face steady. Focused. As if time around him flowed more slowly.
She lowered her gaze back to her notebook.
A few minutes later she raised it again.
Same position. Same silence.
How does he do it?
She didn't think it with admiration. Or with irritation.
Just with a subtle, persistent curiosity.
After a while longer, he closed the book.
Got up. Took it away.
She followed the movement with her eyes.
And when she was left alone at the table it seemed to her that the room had become noisier.
The following day, it had been raining for hours.
A thick, steady rain that filled the air with a soft, constant sound.
The university courtyards shiny with water, puddles rippled by thin circles, students passing quickly with umbrellas held low.
"Shall we go get a coffee?" said one of her friends.
She nodded.
They opened the umbrella going out of the building, pressing close under the fabric as they crossed the internal avenue toward the bar on the other side of the road.
The air was cold and damp.
Fine drops bounced off the asphalt.
The sound of the rain almost covered the voices.
It was as they were about to cross that she saw him.
On the other side of the road.
In the rain.
Without an umbrella.
Standing still on the pavement, slightly apart from the entrance of the building opposite.
His dark jacket wet on his shoulders.
His hair damp on his forehead.
His hands in his pockets.
His head tilted back.
He was looking at the sky.
Not for just a moment.
He stayed like that.
The rain falling on his face, on his half-closed eyes, on his lips slightly parted.
Then he slowly lowered his gaze.
And smiled.
A real smile.
Light.
Almost amused.
As if standing there, in the rain, genuinely pleased him.
As if there was something familiar in that moment.
Something of his own.
She slowed down without realizing it.
She stared at him.
Surprised.
Because it wasn't the expression she knew from him.
Not the neutral calm.
Not the indifference.
Not the silence.
It was... something else.
"Come on, move it, we're getting soaked!" said her friend pulling her by the arm.
She blinked.
Pulled her eyes away from him.
"Yes-"
She crossed with them, entering the bar together with her friends, the smell of warm coffee hitting her.
But for a moment still, while she closed the umbrella, the image of him in the rain stayed in front of her.
Still.
His face to the sky.
And that smile.
Then her friends' voices reabsorbed her.
That evening she found the kitchen occupied.
He was at the counter. Cutting vegetables on a chopping board.
Precise movements. Regular. Unhurried.
She stopped in the doorway. Not to talk. Just because the rhythm of his gestures drew her gaze.
The blade came down straight. Equal slices. Clean.
Beside him, the ingredients already arranged. No mess. No scraps scattered around.
He moved what he had cut into a bowl. Cleaned the knife. Wiped the counter with a quick motion.
As if it were habit.
She moved toward the fridge. Opened it. Took something without really looking.
"Did you work in a kitchen?"
It came out as she closed the door.
He shook his head slightly. "No."
Silence.
She looked at him for a second. "Then how do you do it?"
He lifted his shoulders. "It's the basics."
And went back to cutting.
She stayed still for a moment. Watching his hands.
She didn't understand.
And precisely because of that she stayed a few seconds longer than necessary.
The kitchen had gone quiet again. The faint scent of onion and basil had remained in the air, mixed with the warmth from the radiators.
She finished drying the last plate. Put it back in its place carefully. When she turned, he was gone.
She found him in the living room.
Sitting on the sofa. One leg folded under the other. The laptop on his knees. The lamp beside him on, low.
She stopped for a moment in the doorway.
He wasn't doing anything particular. Just scrolling through something on the screen. With that quiet concentration she had come to recognize.
She crossed the room. Sat down in the armchair, on the other side of the coffee table.
They didn't speak.
All that could be heard was the light click of the trackpad. The rustle of pages in her notebook when she opened it. The distant sound of a car passing outside.
And yet it wasn't empty silence.
It was... presence.
From time to time she raised her eyes. Almost without realizing it.
He changed position. Rested his chin on his fingers. Ran a hand through his hair. Stopped to read.
All normal gestures. Without weight.
And yet she registered them. One by one.
As if she were learning a new language.
At a certain point he spoke, without lifting his eyes from the screen.
"Have you finished your history exam?"
It took her half a second to realize he was talking to her.
"Almost."
"Mm."
Just that.
Silence again.
Then, after a while:
"Much left?"
She looked at her notebook.
"Two chapters."
"Manageable."
Said quietly. Like a statement of fact.
She didn't answer. But she felt a kind of small internal push. As if that word - manageable - had lightened something.
She kept studying.
And without realizing it she noticed that concentration came more easily when he was in the room.
Later he got up to go to the kitchen.
He passed behind her armchair. Close enough to graze the backrest.
She stiffened slightly. Automatic.
Not him. He did nothing. He kept going.
But as he passed his hand accidentally brushed the edge of her notebook.
The notebook slipped. Fell to the floor.
She bent down. So did he.
Their hands arrived together.
Stopped a centimeter apart.
A second. Maybe less.
She pulled hers back immediately.
"Sorry."
"Go ahead."
He picked up the notebook. Held it out to her.
Their fingers touched briefly.
Minimal contact. Accidental. Nothing.
And yet her heart gave a sharp beat.
She took the notebook back. Opened it. Stared at the page without reading it.
He went back to the kitchen.
As if nothing had happened.
That night, in bed, she turned off the light. Turned onto her side.
The house was silent.
Through the wall came the distant sound of the tap closing. His footsteps in the corridor. The door of his room.
Then nothing.
She lay still in the dark.
She thought back to the rain. The kitchen. The living room. The fallen notebook.
All small things. Without meaning.
And yet inside they had moved.
She didn't understand what was changing. She didn't understand when. She didn't understand why him of all people.
But one thing was clear.
Being in the same space was no longer neutral.
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time it wasn't just curiosity.
It was... attention.
The evening had ended late.
Her friends had dragged her out for drinks after lectures. A small venue. Noise. Low lights. Overlapping voices.
When she came out, the air was cold. The street almost empty.
She said goodbye to her friends at the corner. Stood alone on the pavement for a moment.
Then she saw him.
On the other side of the road. His hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Steady pace. Heading home.
She hesitated only a second. Then crossed.
"Are you heading back?"
He turned slightly. Recognized her immediately.
"Yes."
"Me too."
Just that. And they found themselves walking together.
They didn't talk much. A few short phrases. Practical things. University. Schedules.
Then, almost without noticing, they turned into a side street.
Narrower. With few streetlamps. Light in patches. Zones of shadow between one yellow cone and the next.
She slowed slightly.
The dark always gave her a kind of tension in her chest. Not real fear. But alertness.
Not him.
He kept walking the same. Same pace. Same rhythm. As if light or shadow changed nothing.
He looked ahead. Every now and then he raised his eyes slightly toward the road. Natural. Steady.
As if he knew that space. As if he belonged to it.
She watched him.
The way he moved without hurrying. Without stiffness. Without looking for lit spots. Without hesitation.
And she felt something dissolve inside.
A thin thread of safety. Borrowed.
She took a step closer. Almost without realizing it.
The sleeve of his hoodie swayed slightly as he walked.
She reached out her hand.
She hesitated a moment.
Her fingers suspended in mid-air.
Then she grazed the fabric.
Took it gently.
A small hold.
Immediately after she lowered her gaze.
As if someone might have seen.
Even though the street was empty.
She stayed like that.
One step behind.
Holding the hoodie between her fingers.
Her shoulders drawn in slightly.
Her chin tucked a little into the collar of her coat.
A light warmth risen to her cheeks for no reason.
Not to stop him. Not to draw attention.
Just to stay in his rhythm.
He didn't turn. Didn't change pace. Said nothing.
And precisely because of that she understood it was fine.
They walked like that all the way down the dark street.
Her behind him. Her fingers in his hoodie. Her eyes on him crossing the shadow as if it were home.
When they came back under a full streetlamp, she let go of the fabric.
As if nothing had happened.
But inside something had been added.
Not an emotion.
A small certainty.
With him, the dark wasn't frightening.