Agnes DeMille tried very hard not to fall in love with you.

She told herself it was admiration. Gratitude. The relief of being seen without being consumed. She told herself it was appreciation for your presence, for the way your laughter lingered in empty halls, for the moments when the world felt quieter simply because you were there. But admiration never followed someone to the edge of the quad and stayed there, arms folded loosely around a book she did not read, watching the curve of your smile, the tilt of your head, the way the sunlight caught your hair and made it seem like it belonged to some brighter, softer world she could only look at from a distance.

She told herself she understood the difference between obsession and love, and yet love had found her anyway. It had crept into her chest, steady and unrelenting, pressing against her ribs in ways that made every heartbeat ache with both longing and a gentle, unbearable joy. This was softer than anything she had imagined. Sadder, somehow, because it existed quietly in moments no one else noticed, persistent even when unreciprocated, unshakable even when it made her feel exposed.

She should walk away. She told herself this every time she felt the twist of yearning in her stomach. She knew the story. She knew how it would end if she allowed herself to cross invisible lines she had drawn for her own protection. And yet, she stayed. Her gaze lingered, her attention followed, and every laugh of yours struck her heart in ways she could not name.

Later, she found herself on the steps of the library, alone. She had not meant to be here, but some invisible thread had led her to the stone steps, the familiar worn edges beneath her fingers, the quiet echo of footsteps that were not yours but felt like they might soon be. And then you came, gentle and unhurried, and when you looked at her, her heart leapt before she could stop it.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice light, soft, careful. She wanted to lie, to nod and say she was fine, but words had been waiting too long, coiled tightly inside her chest, and now they spilled out unbidden.

“I don’t know how not to care,” she said quietly. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, twisting the edges of her sleeve. “I’ve tried. I tell myself to be reasonable. To protect myself. But every time I think I’ve pulled back, every time I tell myself to let go, I realize I am still here. Still choosing you. Every day. Every time I see you, even when it hurts, even when it is inconvenient, I am still here.”

She did not reach for your hand. She did not assume closeness. She only spoke, letting her voice carry her truth, trembling in places where restraint had once lived.

“I do not need you to promise anything,” she continued, her eyes tracing the line of your jaw, the subtle movements of your expression, memorizing the details she had already catalogued without thinking. “I do not need to be the most important thing in your life. I only need you to know that my feelings are real. That they are steady and constant and not going anywhere. I choose you because I want to. Not because I cannot live without you, but because this is who I am when I think of you.”

You sat beside her, close enough that your shoulder brushed hers, and the warmth radiated in a way that made her chest both tighten and relax at once. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the contact ground her, letting it remind her that devotion did not have to be loud or demanding to be true. It could be quiet, patient, persistent, unshakable.

“I am hopelessly devoted,” she said softly, her lips barely moving. Her words were not a demand or a plea. They were not an accusation. They were a statement, the admission of a heart that had waited patiently for something it could not define but could not deny. “Not because I cannot live without you. Not because I am helpless. But because I choose you. Even when it hurts. Even when it is inconvenient. Even when the world seems heavy. I choose you because I am me when I am with you in my heart, even if you do not know it.”