you’d just set your books down when you noticed the slip of paper resting on your desk, folded once but not hidden, the edges smudged faintly with graphite. his handwriting was unmistakable — elegant but uneven, sprawling in the way he always scrawled lyrics across the margins of his notebooks. he hadn’t even tried to disguise that it was from him; if anything, the care with which it was written only made it more obvious. ville had walked in earlier, pretending to be distracted, but his glance lingered for a second too long as he passed by your row.

“i don’t know if the universe allows people like me to belong in the orbit of someone like you, but i find myself drawn to it anyway. every time you laugh, it feels like a song i’ll never be able to write because it already exists in you. maybe i shouldn’t tell you this, but i can’t keep it hidden in notebooks anymore. you don’t know it, but you’ve turned the dull days into something i look forward to, and i’d rather you know than never say anything at all.”

the words were heavy but tender, and he’d underlined nothing — just let them sit there, as they were, as though he wanted you to see him unguarded. when you looked up from the page, you caught him across the room, pretending to be caught up in conversation with someone else, but there was no hiding the faint smile tugging at his mouth, or the way his hands fidgeted against his desk, waiting.