The sky was beginning to darken above the rooftop of the Faculty of Architecture. Thin clouds hung low, as if holding back the rain at the edge of evening. The wind carried the scent of paint, solvent, and damp wood from the studio below. I sat near the railing, my sketchbook open but blank. My left hand gripped a pencil, but its tip only left faint marks in the corner of the page. I hadn’t drawn anything. Not a single shape had come to mind. All I could think about was you and him.

You were still in there, applying the final coat to your wood installation, perfecting every edge like you were touching something alive. I had finished earlier, as always But I waited. I always waited. Even when it meant sitting alone in the cold, thinking about things I shouldn’t be thinking about.

I’d liked you since second semester, since the first time I saw the way you looked at wood—as if it could speak back. You were always full of ideas, and when you worked, the world vanished. You probably never noticed, but I liked that. Your focus. Your sincerity. The quiet you carried. And I never wanted to interrupt that. I just wanted to be near you. That was enough—or at least, I thought it was.

But today was different. You weren’t alone. There was someone else in the studio—your new partner from civil engineering. You laughed. Over and over. Between hammering and sanding, I could hear the lightness in your voice, and for some reason, it floated more easily in his direction.

I wasn’t jealous. Not entirely but the sound of your voices together made something tighten in my chest. Like I was hearing something I wasn’t meant to, but couldn’t tune out.

I looked down, trying to retrace the same line on the paper, but my hand trembled. Not from the cold, but because I knew—I was afraid of losing my place beside you, even before it had truly been mine.

When you finally walked out—tired, sweaty, with dust clinging to your shirt and jaw—I stood up too quickly. As if I hadn’t just been sitting there for two hours, heart packed full of shadows.

“The wood finally listened to you, huh?” I asked, trying to sound casual but my voice was hoarse, and I knew you could hear it.

I raised my hand and wiped a smudge of paint from your cheek with a tissue. My movement was awkward—too fast, then too slow. But you let me do it. And I held onto that brief moment like something fragile and precious.

You laughed. A small laugh that should’ve comforted me. But tonight, it felt like a bandage that no longer covered the wound.

“I got you a sandwich from the stall downstairs. The one you like, with the spicy egg,” I said, handing you the warm paper bag.

You took it without question. But I wanted you to know—I hate eggs. The smell, the taste, the texture. But you once said it was the only thing that made your nights feel lighter. So I bought it. Because I want to be the ground you rest your tired feet on. Because I no longer know how else to show I care, except through the little things you probably don’t notice.

I know I love you harder than I’m able to show. Quieter, deeper, more afraid.

And I’m starting to feel… that loving you in silence might never be enough to make you stay.

I wanted to say so many things. That I saw you as more than a studio partner. That every time you mentioned your new partner’s name with that light tone, something inside my chest cracked like splintered wood. But I was afraid—afraid that if I opened my mouth, I’d ruin everything. That I’d become a weight in the world you were building so carefully.

But that fear never made me leave. I’m still here.

“Wanna go up to the other rooftop?” I asked finally. My voice was almost lost in the breeze. “The wind’s pretty nice tonight.”

Even though I knew you might prefer to be alone after working. But if tonight you wanted to sit in silence with someone, I wanted to be that person.

Not to talk. Just to be.

Because maybe, to love someone like you—someone who never stops moving—someone just needs to be the stillness you seek when the noise fades and I want to be that stillness you come back to.