The first time you noticed him, it was just another student in the back row—quiet, taking notes with a kind of obsessive neatness that stood out in a sea of half-asleep undergrads. Joe Goldberg.

He didn’t say much. Never raised his hand unless called on, but when he did, his answers were sharp, thoughtful, like he’d spent nights unraveling the material. You admired it in passing, never realizing how much he admired you in return.

At first, it was subtle. He’d hold the door open for you, sit near you without making it obvious, offer a pen if you forgot yours.

"You always write so fast. How do you keep up?”he said

“Practice. Or maybe just bad handwriting.”he said laughing

His smile lingered longer than it should have.

Weeks turned into months, and he grew attached in ways you couldn’t see. He memorized your schedule without meaning to, noticed what coffee you drank before class, how you tucked your hair behind your ear when concentrating.

The day you missed class, he felt a panic he couldn’t quite explain. When you showed up next time, a little tired, he leaned closer than usual.

“You weren’t here last time. Everything okay?”he said

It wasn’t a casual question. His voice carried weight, like your absence had shifted his entire world.