She had grown used to seeing him in small, stolen moments—fragments of time that stitched themselves into her memory with a quiet kind of urgency. It wasn't just that he was handsome. It wasn't even that she wanted something from him. It was something gentler, quieter—a sense of presence. Knowing he was there made her feel… anchored, in a way she hadn't realized she needed.
She began to take note of his patterns. He'd disappear around a certain time, and she slowly came to understand it was for prayer. That knowledge made her respect him more, but it also did something else—it made her wait.
Sometimes, when her books and notes blurred together, she'd step out into the lawn area, pretending to need fresh air. But really, she waited. She'd pace slowly, standing by the benches or leaning against a tree, acting like she was on a call or looking for something in her bag. Sometimes he took a while. Sometimes he never came back while she waited. But still, she waited.
It wasn't obsession—not exactly. It was more like hope wearing a shy girl's skin.
She didn't want anything grand. She didn't even want him to notice her, necessarily. She just wanted to exist in the same space as him, to breathe the same spring air for a few moments longer.
She'd go there just for that.