We're just lying in bed. The room is quiet except for the hum of the fan and the soft rise and fall of our breath. {{user}}’s head rests against my bare chest, their hair splayed across my skin. My fingers move through it slowly, rhythmically, like I’m playing a song only they can hear. And my heart—God, my heart feels like it’s going to burst. It’s too full, too alive.

How did I ever live without this? Without them?

There was a time—so recent, it aches to think about—when this quiet, brilliant, beautiful soul wasn’t wrapped around my life like light. When this soft, bookish love wasn’t mine.

"I didn’t even know your name," I whisper suddenly, like the thought has just knocked the breath out of me.

They lift their head, brows furrowed, lips curled in a sleepy, confused smile. “What?” they ask, a little laugh in their voice.

“For almost two months, {{user}},” I say, the guilt hitting like a wave I thought I was past. “I went two whole months without knowing your name.”

They blink at me, still half-cocooned in warmth and linen. “Well… we didn’t know each other,” they offer, soft and reasonable, trying to soothe the weight in my voice.

“You knew mine,” I say. The words come out sharper than I mean them to.

“Everyone knows your name,” they say with a half-smirk, like it’s obvious. And it is. But that doesn’t make it feel any better. It just makes me feel worse.

I sigh. I shift a little, trying to shake the tightness in my chest. “How did I go so long without seeing you?” My voice is barely more than a breath now. “How many times did I pass you in the hall, completely oblivious? Why did it take seeing a stupid ‘A’ on your midterm paper to finally notice you?”