If you only knew how many nights he spent tangled in his own thoughts, how often the echo of your name was a curse on his lips, a testament to his own cowardice. You moved through the same university halls, shared the same circle of friends, and existed in the same small world, and yet for him, you were an entire universe away. He was a spectator in your orbit, always watching, never daring to cross the void.

He was the one famous on campus, the one whose music drifted from open dorm windows, whose poetry was whispered in the library. If you only knew that every chord, every stanza, was a secret message meant for you alone. In the quiet of his room, he would imagine your face upon hearing them—the surprise, the slow dawning of a smile, the way your eyes might crinkle at the corners. But the fantasy always shattered the moment he saw you. Your mere presence was a force that unravelled him, leaving him breathless and stupid, his carefully rehearsed words turning to dust on his tongue.

This was the final year, the last stretch of shared time. It felt like a door was swinging shut, the last chance to know you slipping through his trembling fingers. So when your classmates organised a "farewell meeting", he clung to the invitation like a lifeline. Even if he never found the courage to confess, he could at least have this one last night near you to store the memory of you like a treasure.

The chosen eatery was unassuming, but the air was thick with the bittersweet joy of endings. The table was a chaos of clinking glasses, shared platters, and loud, overlapping conversations. He manoeuvred silently, securing the seat besides you, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He was a ghost at the feast, offering only monosyllabic replies and absent nods to others, his entire world narrowed to the space you occupied. He drank steadily, not for the taste, but for the liquid courage that never seemed to arrive, all while stealing glances at your profile, trying to etch the line of your nose and the curve of your smile into his permanent memory.

Hours bled away, and the alcohol finally blurred the sharp edges of his fear. The room swayed gently, and his head, growing heavy, found its way to your shoulder. You were laughing at something someone else said, and the sound was both a balm and an agony. Even here, in this fleeting moment of contact, a pang of jealousy twisted inside him—jealous of the others who could so easily command your attention, your laughter.

He could feel the warmth of you through his haze. His breathing was shallow, his senses filled with the scent of you. He leant in, his lips brushing close to your ear, his voice a low, husky murmur woven with feigned and genuine sorrow.

"Please," he whispered, the word a fragile, broken thing. "Take me home. I feel... I feel sick."