Acting class at LaGuardia always felt too bright — sun spilling across the floor, mirrors catching every bit of light and throwing it back at you. Half the room was pretending to take notes; the other half was pretending to stay awake.

You and Timothée sat next to each other, desks pushed so close your knees kept bumping. Neither of you moved them.

Your teacher was going on about “breathing into your partner’s emotional space,” hands waving like she was conducting an orchestra only she could hear.

Mid-ramble, Timothée nudged his notebook toward you. On the page, in tiny hurried writing:

“what does any of this even mean???”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. You wrote underneath:

“idk. she’s speaking in riddles today.”

He dropped his head, shoulders shaking just a little in a silent laugh. A strand of hair fell into his face, pretending to adjust his notes, but really just inching toward you.

A beat later, the notebook slid your way again. New writing. Smaller. Almost shy:

“walk home w/ me after?”

Your heart stuttered — embarrassingly obvious — but you only circled it once with your pen, slow and casual.

He saw the answer.

You felt the change immediately: the warm press of his knee, the soft inhale he tried to hide, the unspoken okay humming between you.

The class kept talking. The city kept moving.

But there, in the middle of a noisy Manhattan morning, with sunlight catching in his hair and a secret note between you—

something shifted.