The train to Iași felt like a pressurized cabin of teenage adrenaline and stale snacks. Five hours of rhythmic clacking against the tracks, the Moldavian landscape blurring into a smudge of burnt orange and grey outside the windows.
In our compartment, the air was thick. I sat across from Steph, our knees occasionally brushing as the train swayed. He was lively, his energy infectious, but his attention was a flickering lighthouse beam. Sometimes it landed on me—long, steady gazes that made my heart skip—and then it would swing toward Sophie.
Sophie. The girl with the wild, curly red hair and the kind of laugh that cut through a crowded room. I remembered the Freshmen Prom—the "Boboc" Ball. They had been the pair that won it for Class 9B, their coordinated dance making the whole jury cheer. I had told myself then it was just for the win, just for the class.
"Remember the lift?" Sophie laughed, throwing her head back. "I thought you were going to drop me right on the principal's shoes."
"Never," Steph grinned, his eyes crinkling. "I had a grip on you. We were a vector, Sophie. Moving in one direction: the trophy."
I looked at my hands. A vector. That word was supposed to be ours.
The first night in Iași, the hotel was a labyrinth of slamming doors and whispered plans. We ended up at a local billiard club. The neon green of the tables cast a sickly hue over everyone's skin. I watched as Steph immediately moved to a table with Sophie.
"Come on, Dary, you're up next," he called out, but his eyes were already back on the cue ball.
He spent the next hour hovering behind Sophie, adjusting her bridge, his hand briefly covering hers to show her the angle. It was "teaching," I told myself. It was "being a teammate." But the way she looked up at him through her red curls, and the way he didn't pull away when she leaned back against him to celebrate a lucky shot, felt like a slow-motion car crash I couldn't stop watching.
Later that night, the party shifted to Steph's room. Thirty of us crammed into a space meant for three, sitting on the floor, the beds, the windowsills. We started playing Truth or Dare.
"Steph," a classmate grinned, spinning a plastic bottle. "Truth or Dare?"
"Truth."
"Who's the best dance partner you've ever had?"
The room went "Oooooh." Steph didn't even hesitate. He looked right at Sophie, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed next to him. "Sophie, obviously. We're the 9B champions."
They shared a look—a private, weighted look that seemed to stretch back to the prom and forward into something I didn't want to name. I felt a cold knot tighten in my chest. They're just talking about the prom, I chanted internally. I shouldn't overreact. He said he wouldn't date a classmate. He said it was a rule.
But as the night wore on, I saw how they gravitated toward each other. When someone dared Sophie to drink a concoction of lukewarm soda and chips, Steph was the one who took the cup from her and drank half of it so she wouldn't have to.
The next day in Iași was supposed to be about Palatul Culturii and history, but for me, it was a lesson in observation. Everywhere we went, Sophie was the one at his side.
We eventually ended up at Palas Mall, deciding to grab coffee at an outdoor terrace. It was a crisp afternoon, and for a moment, the tension eased as we laughed about the overpriced espresso.
Suddenly, a young girl approached our table. She held a crumpled piece of paper and started a rehearsed, fast-paced sob story, her hands moving frantically as she tried to distract us—a classic scam. We all shook our heads, but she was persistent, leaning over the table, almost touching our bags.
"No, thank you," Steph said, his voice firm but polite.
Sophie and I headed to the bathroom to escape the awkwardness. We were still friends back then—or at least, we pretended the unspoken thing between us didn't exist. We talked about hair products and the cold weather, the mirror reflecting two girls who couldn't have been more different.
When we walked back to the terrace, almost the entire class had merged into one giant, chaotic table. And there was the girl again.
She had looped back around, apparently forgetting she had already tried us. She started the same routine, but when a classmate called her out on it, she snapped. The "poor girl" persona vanished, replaced by a sharp-tongued comedian.
She looked at one of our classmates and shouted, "You! You look like a potato that gave up on life!" Then she turned to another, "And you, your forehead is so big I could host a football match on it!"
The table erupted. It was so absurd, so unexpectedly funny, that even the teachers were hiding their smiles. We laughed until our ribs ached. In that moment of collective joy, I looked over at Steph.
He was laughing so hard he had to lean on the table for support. And his hand was resting on the back of Sophie's chair, his fingers inches from her hair. The laughter died in my throat.
The train ride back to Brașov was quieter. The exhaustion of the trip had finally settled in. The sun began to set, casting long, purple shadows over the passing fields.
I leaned my head against the cold glass of the window, the rhythmic thump-thump of the tracks lulling me into a heavy sleep. I didn't know how long I was out, but I woke up to the sound of a camera shutter—the faint click of a phone.
I opened my eyes to see Steph quickly pulling his phone back, a guilty, playful smirk on his face.
"Did you just take a picture of me sleeping?" I asked, my voice thick with sleep.
"You looked peaceful," he whispered, his eyes soft in the dim light of the cabin. "And a little bit like you were fighting a war in your dreams."
My heart did that traitorous flip again. Why did he do these things? Why save my seat, walk me home, and take pictures of me sleeping if I was just a "classmate"?
An hour later, it was his turn. He drifted off, his head leaning back against the headrest, his mouth slightly open. I took my phone out. My hands trembled slightly as I framed the shot. I wanted to keep this—this version of him that wasn't performing for the class, wasn't dancing with Sophie, wasn't citing "golden rules."
As I looked at the photo of him on my screen, I felt a profound sense of regret. We were on a train heading back to the reality of Class 9B. Back to the hallways where he would be "just a classmate" and I would be the girl who watched him from the desk next door.
The vectors were moving, but they weren't converging. They were parallel—close enough to see each other, but destined never to touch. I deleted the photo. Then, after a second of staring at the trash folder, I restored it.
I wasn't ready to let go of the "almost" just yet.