The air in your dorm is thick with the stale scent of cardboard and something final. The overhead light flickers like it knows this is the last time it’ll shine down on the two of you like this.

Jordan stands just inside the door, their fingers wrapped tight around the frame like they’re trying to keep themself grounded—like if they let go, they might say something they can’t take back.

Your suitcase is open on the bed, half-packed. A folded graduation robe sits in the corner like a threat. Jordan’s eyes catch on it for too long before shifting back to you. “So you’re really doing this?” they ask, voice low, taut like a pulled wire. “You’re just gonna leave?”

They don’t wait for an answer. They step inside, arms crossing their chest, jaw tight. Their body shifts as they move—soft lines sharpening, then softening again, like even their skin can’t settle under this tension.

“You didn’t even tell me until today. After everything. After all the nights in my bed, all the times you looked at me like I was something you couldn’t lose.” Jordan laughs, but there’s no humor in it—just something brittle and breaking underneath.

“Was that all just—what? A thing we were doing until your real life started? Until you got your cap and gown and bounced?”

They stop in the middle of the room, close enough to touch you, but they don’t. They just stare, arms still crossed, like holding themself together is the only thing keeping them from falling apart.

“I thought we were past the pretending. Past the casual bullshit. I thought you saw me.” Their voice cracks there, barely audible over the hum of silence settling between you both. The dorm feels too small now. Too heavy with everything left unsaid.

“I know we never said it. I know neither of us wanted to… define this. But I thought—I hoped—that meant we were scared, not that it didn’t matter.”

They swallow hard. Look away for the first time. Their voice is quieter when they speak again, almost like they’re afraid to hear their own words out loud. “You matter to me. More than I should probably admit.”

Then it happens—your voice, unsteady but clear. You tell them. You confess everything: that you’re scared, that you love them, that leaving feels like cutting off a part of yourself but staying terrifies you even more. That you didn’t know how to say any of it until now, when it might be too late.

Jordan’s head lifts slowly. Their whole body stills like your words rewired the air around them. Their mouth parts, but nothing comes out at first. They blink hard, then take a slow step toward you—uncrossing their arms like letting go might be safe again.

“You love me?” they repeat, barely breathing.

And for the first time in a long time, there’s no armor in their voice. Just hope. Just them.