Amelia's POV
Everyone looked so tense after the workshop ended—like they were waiting for someone to yell "cut" and announce it was all a very intense social experiment.
Alexis had bolted.
Ethan had followed.
Noah looked like he was storing secrets in his mouth like a squirrel.
And me?
I just wanted to walk home. Preferably with someone who didn't feel like the human version of a lit match.
So when Jhonathan looked over and said,
"Hey. Want to walk back together?"
I said yes way too fast.
Now we're strolling through campus like we're in the last five minutes of a coming-of-age indie movie.
The air is cool.
The trees are golden and sleepy. And his hand keeps brushing mine and it's literally killing me.
He says something about how proud he is of Alexis. About how she held herself together through the chaos. And I nod. But all I'm really thinking is:
Your voice is soft. Why is your voice so soft? Why are you walking this close? I'm gonna pass out actually.
He asks how I'm feeling and I say:
"Kinda like a firework that never went off."
He smiles at that.
"That's a very Amelia answer."
And I melt.
Right there. On the sidewalk.
He called it an Amelia answer. Like I'm a language. Like I'm a story he's learning.
WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THAT???
We pass the science building. I pull my hoodie tighter around me, and without even thinking, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders.
Instead of saying 'Thank you' , like a normal person, I say something incredibly stupid like:
"Do you think squirrels understand capitalism?"
He laughs. Like, really laughs.
Oh no. He finds me funny. That's illegal.
We stop by a vending machine for no reason. I stare at the buttons. Not hungry. Just… delaying. Extending this moment. He watches me like he knows.
"Are you always this indecisive about snacks?" he teases.
"Only when I'm trying not to look like I'm prolonging our walk to avoid being alone in my room with my spiraling thoughts," I say brightly.
He blinks.
Then smiles.
"I don't mind. I like walking with you."
I go silent for a full ten seconds.
Then blurt out,
"You know this is, like, a whole scene in a romance novel, right?"
He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Yeah, well… I read good books."
STOP IT. STOP. I'M BLUSHING INTO ANOTHER DIMENSION.
I'm literally going to have to write a diary entry about this man.
Like,
"Dear Journal, today I fell in love with Jhonathan's walk and Jhonathan's jacket and Jhonathan's way of existing."
But, yet again,
I said something dumb. Like:
"Do you think pigeons are just government drones that gave up?"
And he laughed. The kind of laugh that makes your stomach flip like a gymnast on espresso.
"You're something else, Amelia," he said.
And I swear my brain short-circuited for a solid 45 seconds.
He was wearing that soft grey hoodie. The one that makes him look even taller than usual.
His hands were in his pockets.
His head tilted toward me just slightly.
And I wanted to grab his face and kiss him.
But instead I tripped over nothing and said
"cool cool cool"
three times like a malfunctioning AI robot.
So yeah.
I like him.
I like him so bad.
And I think I'm maybe going to combust from it.
We reached the edge of my dorm.
And I don't want to go inside.
I want to stay here forever. In this moment. Where nothing hurts. Where everything feels like maybe.
But I say,
"Thanks for walking me."
And he says,
"Thanks for letting me."
And I just—
I want to kiss him so bad it's stupid.
.Whatever. It happened.
It's happening.
I'm in deep.
I am so, so into this man.
Which is very inconvenient because he's calm and smart and older and professional and emotionally mature and probably journals and stretches in the morning like a functioning adult.
And me?
I'm wearing mismatched socks.
And last night I almost cried over a dog on instagram.
He's like… seasoned emotional intelligence with a license.
I'm like… anxiety in human form.
He's just… so much.
Not like a lot, like TOO MUCH FOR ME.
He's older. He's mature. He probably has a skincare routine. He listens when people talk. He reads actual non-fiction books.
I'm just a disaster in glitter lip gloss.
He shouldn't like me.
Like, in what world?
"He's literally a grown man," I whisper in my head. "I am barely a functioning twenty-year-old with a caffeine addiction and emotional support lip balm."
Jhonathan's POV
She said yes.
When I asked if she wanted to walk home—
she said yes. No hesitation.
That did something to my heart. Something soft and irreversible.
Now we're walking down College Avenue, our steps accidentally matching, the wind tugging at her hair, and she's talking about the emotional fallout of the workshop like she wasn't the one holding everyone's sanity together with snacks and sass and pure Amelia energy.
And I?
I am hopelessly, irreversibly, quietly ruined by her.
She talks with her hands.
Gets distracted mid-sentence.
Laughs like she's surprised by joy every time.
And when she shivers, just once, I give her my jacket.
Because obviously.
But the way she looks up at me after?
Like I just gave her the moon?
I want to bottle that expression and keep it forever.
She jokes that this feels like a romance novel scene and I laugh, but honestly?
I think this is better.
Because it's her.
And she's real and unfiltered and good.
She makes me feel like I'm not just listening anymore. Like I'm part of the story.
Which is dangerous.
Because I know this feeling.
I've seen what it can do.
But with her?
It doesn't feel like a storm. It feels like spring.
There's a very real chance I'm in love with her.
I know. Dramatic. Fast. Foolish.
But… I've watched Amelia carry the weight of other people's storms while making it look like dancing. I've seen the way she masks heartbreak with humor. How she uses brightness like a shield.
And now?
Now she's walking beside me.
Wearing my jacket.
Blushing at nothing.
Making squirrel jokes and looking up at the stars like they're personal friends.
I am so far gone it's hilarious.
She talks about squirrels and capitalism. I laugh harder than I mean to.
And then she says something about spiraling alone in her room and I just—
I want to wrap her in warmth and tell her she never has to spiral alone again.
Okay. This needs to stop.
She's a student. She's younger. She's spontaneous and bright and a whole damn beam of sunlight—
And I am a licensed professional who eats oatmeal for breakfast and listens to instrumental playlists.
I should be thinking about my dissertation. Or sleep. Or the alarming rate at which I'm becoming emotionally attached to someone who calls me "pookie" unironically.
Instead?
I'm wondering if she likes the way my jacket smells.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye as we walk.
She's talking about something—memes or dreams or ice cream flavors, probably—and all I can think is:
She deserves someone who matches her energy. Someone messy. Someone young. Not me.
Be an adult, Jhonathan. Be rational. Be boring.
Do not fall in love with the girl who makes you laugh harder than anyone else.
But then she bumps my arm with hers. On purpose, I think. And she smiles.
And everything in me just… crumbles a little.
We stop by the garden. I could say goodnight here.
But I don't.
Because I want five more minutes.
Of her voice. Of her hands dancing in the air. Of this feeling.
She says something about how I make hard days feel like soft nights.
And I—
I literally stop breathing.
That's not flirting. That's a confession.
That's someone handing you their heart without wrapping it in a joke first.
I almost tell her.
Almost say, "You make things softer for me too."
But I don't.
Because I'm trying to be the adult.
The mature one. The professional. The friend.
Even though my brain is on fire and my heart is staging a riot.
I drop her at her dorm. She hesitates at the door.
Part of me wants to reach out.
Touch her hand. Hold it. Just for a second.
Instead I say:
"Sleep well, Amelia."
She says:
"You too, pookie."
And walks inside.
I just stand there.
Like a fool. Who just got called pookie.
Like a man who's trying to convince himself that it's fine.
That it's a crush. That it'll pass.
But the truth is?
I'm not okay.
I'm not fine.
I'm in love with the brightest person I've ever met, and I can't even say it out loud because I'm afraid the world will shift if I do.
So I walk home alone.
Smiling. Suffering. Giddy. Denying.
And already counting the minutes until I see her again.