you and colin hadn’t really talked much before, not outside of the occasional glance across classrooms or the way he always seemed to linger in the back of the record store when you were there. but somehow, he’d started showing up in small ways. slipping you burned cds with hand-scribbled tracklists, sending you late-night texts about obscure horror movies, leaving poems half-finished in the margins of borrowed notebooks.

he was the kind who lived in shadows but noticed everything. the band patches sewn into your bag. the way you always stopped to read the flyers on telephone poles. how you traced the spines of books with your fingers before choosing one. he made you feel like being quiet was enough. like silence wasn’t empty, but shared.

it started small: bumping into each other in the dark corner of the library, both reaching for the same dog-eared Sylvia Plath collection, his ring-clad fingers brushing yours and pulling back too quickly.

and now? now you were standing under the buzzing streetlight outside the old theater, rain tapping gently against the marquee. colin’s jacket smelled faintly of smoke and damp flannel, and he shifted his weight like the words in his mouth were heavier than he meant them to be. his eyes soft, uncertain, a little nervous, found yours like he wasn’t sure if he should. like he was asking permission to stay.

“so, um—do you maybe wanna catch a movie or something?” he asks, voice low, like he’s afraid the night might swallow it up.