You and Jake had history, but it wasn’t the dramatic kind people write poems about. It was ordinary and constant. Kindergarten hand-holding. Trading snacks at lunch. Sitting too close during movie days. The kind of closeness that never needed words.

When his family moved away in sixth grade, it didn’t feel real at first. Just a different seat in class. A quieter walk home. Then a letter folded too many times, his handwriting messy and uneven, promising he wouldn’t forget you. You kept it longer than you’d admit.

College was supposed to be a clean slate.

So when someone dropped into the empty seat beside you halfway through lecture, you didn’t look up. Just shifted your notebook a little, annoyed at the sudden crowding. The guy leaned over a second later. “Hey—sorry,” he said quietly. “I missed yesterday. Do you have the notes?”

You froze. That voice wasn’t unfamiliar. Just…older.

You turned your head slowly. Took in the sharp jawline, the familiar curve of his smile when he realized who he was looking at. His expression flickered—confusion first, then something like disbelief. “…Wait.”

The professor kept talking. Pens scratched. The room carried on like nothing had changed.

Jake stared at you, eyes widening a fraction, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked. “Oh,” he breathed, almost to himself. “{{user}}.”

You swallowed, heart suddenly too loud in your ears, and slid your notebook toward him without a word. He didn’t take it right away. Just sat there, stunned, knee pressed lightly against yours, like he still hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that you were real—and sitting right next to him.