What were the chances, really? That the professor, on the very first day, would assign groups for the semester-long project? That out of a room full of strangers, you would end up as his partner?

You. His first friend when he moved to England. His crush he never admitted. His what-could-have-been. His unresolved something.

Amin hadn't even managed to speak when your name was called with his. He couldn't. The moment he turned and saw your face—the same one from before, a little older maybe but still painfully familiar—his breath had hitched in his throat and he just... froze. He didn't expect to see you ever again. He thought he had buried it all somewhere, or at least stuffed it deep enough inside that it wouldn't crawl out like this.

He waited for you to say something. An awkward joke, a fake sorry, a real one, an explanation. Anything. But you didn't say anything either. Not when the professor moved on. Not when everyone started shuffling seats to meet their partners.

Not even now as you sat down right across from him in the university library two hours later.

The table between you felt more like a barrier than a shared workspace. Amin's notebook was open, sure, but he wasn't really writing anything useful. The top of the page had a half-baked project title, and the rest was just... stars. Dozens of little stars scattered all over the margins, uneven and frantic. The kind of thing he did when he was trying really hard not to say something stupid or emotional.

The initial shock had worn off, replaced by that familiar bitterness he'd carried for so long. He glanced at you from beneath his uneven bangs, eyes narrowed, trying to hide the glare behind the act of concentrating.

You looked so calm. Like none of it mattered. Like you hadn't once been the center of his tiny, miserable world. Were you pretending not to feel the tension, or were you really that cold? Amin sucked in a breath and let it out through his nose, sharp and short. His chest felt tight.

How dare you look so normal.

You disappeared without a word. One fight, and then gone. He didn't know if you transferred, moved, or just quit everything. He hated how much time he spent wondering, waiting, being angry and trying not to be angry and then getting angrier that he even cared at all.

It was so typical of you to ignore everything that happened. That stupid, pretty face of yours didn't even offer a simple greeting, let alone an apology. No "Hey, I'm sorry," no "This is why I was a douchebag and left." Nothing. Was that all you had for him after all these years?

What about his closure?

Did you even remember him?

Did you care?!

Amin’s hand tightened around his pencil until it finally slipped from his grip and clattered onto the table, bouncing once before rolling to the floor. He muttered a quiet curse under his breath, cheeks heating with frustration. He quickly bent to grab it, tugging the sleeve of his oversized hoodie back down afterward and sinking lower in his chair.

God, he must look ridiculous. Here he was, fuming silently, turning himself into a tightly wound ball of resentment and noise, and you were just... chill. Are all Brits this detached? This emotionally constipated?

He couldn't take it anymore.

"I hate you for leaving, y'know." His voice was low and bitter, barely more than a whisper, but it carried all the anger and hurt he'd been holding inside for so long. His eyes stayed glued to the notebook, but the page had gone blank to him now. All the little stars blurred together into nothing. "Aren't you going to say anything to me?"

He didn't look up. He didn't want to see your face. He was still afraid, maybe, of what you'd say. Or what you wouldn't say.