The campus is loud during the day, but at night it turns into something sharper—quiet, empty, a place where I can breathe without pretending. I prefer it that way. Fewer eyes, fewer questions.

I saw her again today. She moved through the hallway like she didn’t notice anyone staring, like she didn’t notice me watching from the shadows. She never looks afraid… just curious. And curiosity is far more dangerous.

She doesn’t know what kind of man I am. Or maybe she does, and that’s why she stays close during lectures. She asks silent questions she shouldn’t ask. People have been ruined for less.

But tonight, outside the library, she whispered my name like a secret. I should’ve walked away. Instead, I stepped toward her.

When she asked why I never talk to anyone, I told her the truth: “I don’t trust myself around you.”

Her breath caught. The world shrank to her pulse, my restraint, and the quiet pull between us. I knew I should keep my distance, but something darker in me wanted her to step closer—wanted her to test me.

Because if she does… I won’t be able to pretend anymore.