After that night, something changed.
Pearl overthought everything — the way she said hi to him in the hallway, the way her hand hovered too long over his when she passed him her notes. She replayed that almost confession like a loop in her mind, scolding herself for not being braver.
Sharon, meanwhile, found himself drawing her more than ever — her laughter, her frown when she studied, the curve of her smile when she teased him. But the more he sketched, the more he worried. What if she didn't feel the same? What if it was all in his head?
So they pulled back. Just a little.
One afternoon, Pearl caught him avoiding her eyes in the library. She nudged his sketchbook, playfully at first, but he barely looked up. It stung more than she expected.
"Sharon, did I do something?" she asked, voice softer than usual.
He shook his head, eyes fixed on the page. "No, Star. Just… tired."
She wanted to push. She wanted to say Don't shut me out. But she didn't. She just nodded, packing her books too quickly, her heart feeling heavier than her bag.
That night, Sharon sat on his bed, pencil hovering over a half-finished drawing of Pearl. He wanted to text her. To say I'm sorry, I don't know how to say what I feel. But he didn't.
And Pearl, lying in bed, stared at her phone, typing Are we okay? — only to delete it over and over again.
They both fell asleep that night with tiny storms inside them — two people learning that even the softest beginnings come with sharp little fears.
But somewhere under the quiet fights, the half-kept distance, and the unsaid words, the love kept growing — stubborn, gentle, waiting for its moment to be spoken out loud.