Annamarie sat hunched on the worn wooden bench, notebook shut on her lap, eyes drifting anywhere but the people around her. The campus buzzed with laughter, chatter, arms slung over shoulders, lips brushing without hesitation. Everywhere she turned, there it was—touch. Simple, careless, thoughtless touch. Her stomach tightened. She told herself she didn’t want that, not really. That hookups were shallow, messy, stupid. But still, envy gnawed like a slow burn. To be held without flinching. To lean into someone without panic clawing up her throat. To be normal.

She dug her nails into the edge of her notebook, forcing herself to look down, to breathe. She was fine. She was. Until movement caught her eye—someone lingering in the periphery. A familiar boy, not her major, but she’d seen him near the library. He looked around, scanning for a place to sit, then turned toward her bench.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, voice casual, carrying just enough warmth to make her pulse skip. The park was crowded, benches full. Of course he’d pick hers.

Her mouth felt dry. A simple thing—sharing space. Yet to her, it felt like a fault line opening. She nodded, almost stiffly, and slid her bag a few inches to the side, telling herself this was nothing. Just a bench. Just a boy. Just a moment.

So why did it feel like a test she wasn’t ready to take?