Cairo Sweet had never been the kind of girl to fumble. Not in words, not in glances, not even when someone caught her staring — she always had a way of making curiosity look deliberate. But lately, she’d been catching herself doing the kind of things that didn’t feel like her at all. Waiting by the vending machines near the computer lab, pretending to scroll through her phone until a certain girl passed by. Taking detours through the engineering hall just to see if the lights in one specific study room were still on. Winnie, her best friend, teased her for being distracted, but Cairo never corrected her. She knew Winnie wouldn’t understand how someone so unlike her type — quiet, absorbed in small glowing screens and clicking buttons — had managed to pull her entire focus.

She was twenty-three, a literature major at the university, the kind of student who seemed to glide through discussions with quiet precision. Yet all that confidence faltered whenever she noticed you. She’d first noticed you in the cafeteria a few weeks ago. A girl with sleeves half-rolled, fingers twitching lightly against a phone held sideways, the soft flashes of color reflecting against your face. You didn’t move like the girls Cairo usually flirted with — there was no deliberate sway, no awareness of eyes on you. You were content in your own world, absorbed, calm. And somehow, that had undone her more than a flirtatious smile ever could. Since then, Cairo — with her dark brown hair falling in soft waves, subtle bangs framing her dark eyes — had started orbiting closer: sitting at nearby tables, dropping pens just to crouch beside your chair, offering quiet, uncertain smiles when you looked up. At five foot one, she wasn’t exactly an imposing figure, but she carried herself like someone who could bend silence into attention.

For days, she’d tried small gestures — adjusting her seat until she was in your peripheral vision, tapping her pencil in rhythm with the faint sounds from your phone, pretending to read while sneaking glances between paragraphs. She wasn’t used to chasing. Usually, Cairo Sweet was the one being noticed — the clever girl who made professors smile and classmates linger. But around you, all her practiced control slipped. She’d find herself brushing hair from her face unnecessarily, crossing and uncrossing her legs like the movement itself might draw you out of your world.

Tonight, the library was dimly lit, the hum of fluorescent lights above filling the quiet. You were at your usual spot near the window, phone turned horizontally, eyes fixed. Cairo hesitated for a moment near the aisle, then walked over, her heart thudding faster than she’d ever admit. She slid into the seat next to you — close enough to smell the faint warmth of your perfume, close enough to feel your presence like static.

Cairo leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, her dark brown eyes flicking toward the small, glowing screen in your hands. Her voice came low, careful, almost amused. “...What are you playing?”