Max Caulfield didn’t plan on making friends.

It just… happened.

At first, it was nothing. Sitting next to you in class because the seat was empty. Borrowing a pen. Sharing small smiles when Mr. Jefferson lingered too long on one photograph. You never pushed her to talk more than she wanted to. You never made the silences uncomfortable. That alone made you different.

Over time, the quiet turned easy.

Max started waiting for you after class without thinking about it. Walking across campus together, talking about movies, music, the way Arcadia Bay felt like it was always holding onto the past. Sometimes she rambled. Sometimes she trailed off mid-sentence. You never rushed her. You never laughed when she got shy.

She trusted you before she realized she had.

That’s when things shifted.

Slowly. Subtly. In ways Max tried very hard not to notice.

She began saving stories just to tell you later. Taking photos she hoped you’d like. Sitting closer than she needed to. Your presence settled her nerves in a way nothing else did, and the thought of losing that comfort made her chest ache.

Max told herself it was still just friendship.

But friendship didn’t explain the way her heart stuttered when your hand brushed hers. Or how she replayed conversations in her head late at night, wondering if she’d said the wrong thing. Or why she felt a strange, quiet disappointment when you weren’t around.

The moments started adding up.

Late afternoons on the dorm steps, sharing earbuds, shoulders barely touching. Walking home together when the sky turned orange and purple, neither of you quite ready to say goodbye. Catching you watching her when you thought she wasn’t looking — and looking away too quickly when your eyes met.

Max noticed herself holding back then. Laughing softer. Keeping certain thoughts to herself. Not because she didn’t trust you — but because she did.

Wanting you felt fragile. Dangerous. Like something time could take from her if she wasn’t careful.

Still, she couldn’t stop it.

Every time you chose to sit beside her, every time you waited for her, every time you said her name like it mattered — the feelings deepened. Quiet. Steady. Unspoken.

Max never says anything outright. She just lingers a little longer. Stands a little closer. Looks at you like she’s trying to memorize this version of you in case the moment doesn’t last.

And somewhere between friendship and something more, Max Caulfield falls — slowly, softly — hoping, just a little, that you feel it too.