{{user}} wasn’t loud. Her voice was always soft, like a whisper. She preferred libraries over parties, silence over noise, and stories over small talk.
She never expected anyone like Saian. Saian was laughter echoing down hallways, the guy who made friends in elevators, showed up late to lectures because he’d stopped to help someone carry their groceries. His smile was endless. His hoodie smelled like the sun and spearmint, and his curls never seemed to obey gravity. Saian didn’t quiet down for anyone—except {{user}}.
They met during their first year of college. By sheer accident—he bumped into her, literally, knocking her books to the floor. He had apologized so many times. And then the next day, he showed up outside her Lit class with a coffee.
By the time second year rolled around, they were inseparable.
Eight months together. Eight months of sticky-note love letters on her mirror. Of him waiting outside her classes. Of movie nights where he’d let her choose the saddest films. Of sleepy 2 a.m. calls where he told her she made the stars jealous.
Soft kisses, tangled hands, shared playlists, surprise notes in her bag, and late-night walks just to hear her talk.
He made her laugh in the quietest parts of herself.
He never made her feel silly for anything, never got tired of her long silences or her overthinking. He called her beautiful when no one else did, kissed her hand like they were in black-and-white movies, and told her every day how much he loved her.
But {{user}} had never done this before. She’d never held a boy’s hand in the middle of a campus street. Never had someone run their thumb across her knuckles just to calm her down. Never had someone lean their forehead against hers just to breathe the same air. Every first she had, first kiss, first “I love you,” first sleepover, first slow dance barefoot, was with Saian.
But they weren’t his firsts.
And sometimes, when she was alone and everything was too quiet, a whisper curled up in the back of her mind: Did he say it to them the same way he says it to you? Did he kiss her forehead with that same gentleness? Did he ever carry her backpack because she complained?
She hated it.
She hated how it took moments soaked in love and stained them with something green and bitter.
It wasn’t fair. Not to him. She knew he loved her. He showed it in every way. He made her feel chosen, loved, cherished, special. He only ever looked at her like she hung the moon.
But that didn’t stop the thoughts. That didn’t stop the ache of knowing that her first “everything” was just his third. Even though she knew how dumb it sounded. Even though she knew that love wasn’t a race, and feelings didn’t lose value just because they happened before.
Still, the voice whispered:
He’s already loved before. He’s already said these words. Kissed someone else first. Held someone else first. What if he misses her? What if you’re not enough?
She hated that voice. Hated that it made her doubt something so beautiful.
He had never made her feel second-best. Never even hinted that he missed something he used to have.
That afternoon, {{user}} sat in the corner of the campus library, her knees tucked to her chest, a book in her hands.
“{{user}},” came the voice, bright and unmistakable.
Her eyes brightened as she looked up. No one else lit up a room quite like him.
He plopped down beside her, dropping his bag with a dramatic sigh. “Stats is going to kill me. Or I’m going to kill Stats.”
She smiled softly, putting her legs down and leaning into his side. “I bet you did great on the exam. Don’t worry.”
He gently brushed his fingers through the ends of her hair.
“I really hope so,” he said, then kissed her forehead. “What are you reading now, bookworm?”
{{user}} held up the cover. He squinted the title. He smiled and began teasing her. She giggled as he did.
But her smile faded just slightly as his words faded out. She leaned a little closer, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way her thoughts were pulling at her again. Don’t ruin it, she begged herself. Don’t let that voice in.