That night she barely slept.
The feeling of the shirt between her fingers hadn't gone away. Ridiculous, she knew. Yet there she was - still awake, the ceiling above her motionless, the darkness of the room familiar yet different.
She turned onto her side.
She was becoming one of those people who think too much about things that don't mean anything.
She decided that, right before closing her eyes.
They didn't mean anything.
---
The university had gone back to its noisy normal.
The hallways had filled up again with footsteps, overlapping voices, backpacks bumping into chairs and doors. The cold morning air came in through the cracked-open windows, carrying that sense of beginning that every January seemed to have.
She walked alongside her friends, listening more than talking.
In front of the classroom, a group of girls was talking quietly.
"That was the one from the party, right?"
"Yeah... the elegant one."
"He's hot, sure... but such a wall."
A stifled laugh.
"Feels like you'd freeze just talking to him."
Her friends exchanged an amused glance.
She tried to smile, but what came out was an uncertain grimace.
"He doesn't seem like that to me..."
She said it quietly, almost without thinking.
Her friends turned toward her.
"No?"
"I don't know..." she looked down for a moment. "He just seems like someone who wants to keep to himself."
"Which is exactly what we just said," one of them giggled.
She blushed slightly, realizing she'd exposed herself more than necessary.
She shrugged, as if to close the topic.
At that moment he walked through the hallway.
A simple movement, unhurried. Not looking at anyone. With that natural distance that seemed to exist even in the middle of a crowd.
The conversations around them didn't stop, but dropped slightly.
Her friends followed him with their eyes for a second.
"There," one murmured. "Exactly like that."
She said nothing.
She glanced at him in passing, almost by accident.
Then he disappeared beyond the door leading to the courtyard.
She walked into the classroom, sat by the window.
Her gaze drifted outside.
In the side courtyard, against the wall, was him.
One shoulder leaning on the bricks.
A cigarette between his fingers.
The smoke rising slowly into the cold air.
From the right side of the courtyard came a girl.
Uncertain steps.
Her hands clasped around a sealed envelope.
She stopped in front of him.
He lifted his gaze slightly.
The girl breathed in softly.
"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.
"This says what I feel... you don't have to answer me."
Softer:
"I just wanted to tell you."
He took it without hurry.
Stayed silent.
The girl nodded to herself, as if that silence was enough.
"Sorry..." she murmured.
Then she turned and walked away quickly.
He stayed where he was.
The cigarette between his fingers.
The envelope in his 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 open the envelope.
Didn't turn it over.
He kept smoking.
When the cigarette was done, he pulled away from the wall and reached the trash can.
He dropped the cigarette.
Then, in the same motion, he dropped the envelope too.
Unopened.
Her fingers tightened slightly on the wood of the desk.
He started walking back toward the courtyard exit.
Without turning around.
"Oh?" said a friend beside her.
She blinked.
She pulled her eyes away from the window.
"Nothing."
She turned back to the desk.
The lesson was about to start.
---
When it ended, her friends immediately started talking about something else.
She didn't.
She stayed seated a few seconds longer.
The notebook open.
The pen still between her fingers.
In front of her, the window.
The exact spot where he'd been leaning against the wall.
The cigarette.
The girl.
The letter.
She replayed the gesture.
Simple.
Clean.
The envelope in the trash.
Her fingers tightened slightly on the pen.
Not sadness.
Not anger.
Just a thin pressure in her chest.
Nameless.
She got up.
Gathered her things with automatic movements.
Leaving the classroom, for a moment she looked for him in the hallway.
He wasn't there.
And that thing stayed there.
On her.
---
In the afternoon they studied in the same space.
She at the table. Notebooks open. Highlighter between her fingers.
He on the opposite side. A thick volume. Back straight. Motionless.
An hour passed.
She changed position three times. Crossed her legs. Uncrossed them. Got up for water. Came back.
He had barely moved.
Just one page turned. Slow.
She looked up.
His face still. Focused. As if time around him moved slower.
She lowered her eyes back to her notebook.
After a few minutes she raised them again.
Same position. Same silence.
*How does he do that?*
She didn't think it with admiration. Nor with irritation.
Just with that kind of attention that won't let go.
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, the room seemed to have gotten louder.
---
Later he got up to go to the kitchen.
He passed behind her armchair.
She stiffened slightly. Automatic.
His hand accidentally brushed the edge of her notebook.
The notebook slid. Fell to the floor.
She bent down. So did he.
Their hands arrived together.
They stopped a centimeter apart.
A second. Maybe less.
She pulled hers back immediately.
"Sorry."
"Go ahead."
He picked up the notebook. Handed it to her.
Their fingers brushed briefly.
Minimal contact. Accidental.
Her breath caught for an instant, then settled again.
He went back to the kitchen.
As if nothing had happened.
She stayed still, notebook in her hands.
Stared at the page without reading it.
She was becoming one of those people who think too much about things that don't mean anything.
She had already decided that last night.
And yet here she was - still.