Classes didn't begin all at once.
They eased in, scattered across the week, giving the illusion that there was plenty of time to adjust. Schedules overlapped imperfectly. Some mornings were empty. Others filled themselves quickly, leaving little room to breathe. The campus settled into a rhythm that felt looser than school, but no less demanding in its own way.
I started recognizing faces.
Not names yet—just patterns. The same person always sitting near the aisle. Someone who laughed too loudly at nothing in particular. A girl who took careful notes even during introductions. We nodded at each other occasionally, a quiet agreement that we were all still figuring things out.
I saw her often.
More often than I expected, less often than I wanted.
Sometimes it was intentional. We'd message briefly about a lecture or a room number, meet near a building entrance, and walk together until our paths split. Other times, it was coincidence—catching sight of her across the quad, exchanging a wave before disappearing into separate crowds.
Each time felt natural.
That was what unsettled me.
One afternoon, after a class that ended earlier than planned, we found ourselves walking side by side without having decided to.
"You free?" she asked.
"For now."
"Good," she said. "I don't feel like going home yet."
Neither did I.
We walked without direction at first, letting the paths decide. The campus was quieter in the afternoon lull, students scattered between buildings, conversations drifting in and out of focus.
"I like it here," she said suddenly.
"Already?"
She nodded. "It feels… lighter."
"Different from school."
"Yeah," she said. "Like I'm allowed to change my mind."
I thought about that as we walked.
We stopped near a small lawn where a few students sat in loose circles, notebooks open, laughter unforced. She watched them for a moment.
"Do you ever feel like we're starting over?" she asked.
"In some ways."
"In others?" she prompted.
I hesitated. "In others, it feels like we never really stopped."
She smiled at that.
We began meeting more often after that.
Not officially. Not as something decided. Just… naturally. If one of us had time, we'd check in. If not, we wouldn't. There were no expectations attached.
We studied together sometimes.
Not seriously. Sitting near each other in the library, trading comments in whispers, sharing complaints about professors who spoke too quickly or assignments that made little sense.
Once, she slid her notebook toward me.
"Does this make sense to you?"
I glanced at it, then back at her. "It does when you explain it like this."
She laughed. "I knew it."
The laughter felt easy.
Too easy.
We started taking the same route home when our schedules lined up. Sometimes we talked the whole way. Sometimes we didn't. Silence had regained its old warmth, settling between us without pressure.
One evening, as we walked past the station, she stopped abruptly.
"Wait," she said. "I forgot something."
She jogged ahead, disappearing briefly into a convenience store, then returned with two drinks.
She handed one to me. "You didn't say no."
"You didn't ask."
She smiled. "That's progress."
We sat on a low wall outside, watching people pass.
"Do you think this is dangerous?" she asked suddenly.
"What is?"
"This," she said, gesturing vaguely between us.
I considered it.
"Only if we pretend it isn't happening."
She nodded slowly. "I was thinking the same thing."
But neither of us said anything more.
Days turned into weeks.
The campus grew more familiar. The initial uncertainty softened. Schedules solidified. Clubs advertised loudly. Friend groups formed and re-formed.
And still, we kept finding each other.
It wasn't intentional. It didn't feel like fate. It felt like habit.
And habits are harder to question.
One evening, as we sat in the café near the back of campus, she traced the rim of her cup absent-mindedly.
"I'm glad this feels normal again," she said.
"Me too."
She glanced up. "You don't sound relieved."
"I am," I said. "Just… careful."
She studied me for a moment. "You always are."
I didn't deny it.
Because what I didn't say was this:
that comfort had returned too easily.
that ease had erased the distance without resolving it.
that being familiar again felt like standing on thin ice that hadn't cracked yet.
As we left the café, evening settling in around us, I realized something.
Distance had taught us how to exist apart.
Now, closeness was teaching us something else entirely.
And I wasn't sure which lesson would last longer.