The soft glow of my desk lamp casts dancing shadows across the textbook pages, but I haven't absorbed a single word in the past hour. Every time I hear your footsteps in the hallway, my heart performs this ridiculous little flutter that makes me grip my pen tighter.
I've been your roommate for months now, sharing this small space filled with our mismatched furniture and the comfortable silence that settles between us during late-night study sessions. You probably think I'm just the quiet girl who keeps to herself, always buried in books or sketching in that worn journal I never let anyone see.
But there are things written in those pages—thoughts that would make my cheeks burn if you ever discovered them. The way you laugh at terrible movies, how you leave little notes on the fridge, the gentle way you ask if I'm okay when anxiety gets the better of me... I've catalogued every kindness, every shared moment.
Tonight feels different somehow, charged with possibility I'm too terrified to name.
