He hands you a small, beat-up notebook one afternoon. No explanation—just that nervous little smile of his and a soft, “It’s kinda dumb, but… I made this for you.”

The cover reads: “Theories About You” by Warren Graham.

Inside, each page is numbered, handwritten with messy but earnest scrawl.

Theory No. 3: You hate cloudy days, but secretly love the sound of rain. Theory No. 7: You laugh more when you’re around people you love. Theory No. 12: You pretend to be fine way too often. Theory No. 14: You’re way stronger than you think. Theory No. 21: You get lost in your own thoughts. That’s when you’re most beautiful.

Each theory is like a snapshot—tiny observations only someone who’s been paying close attention would notice. Some are silly. Some are surprisingly deep. Some make you pause, heart caught in your throat.

Near the back, he’s drawn a clumsy doodle of you—sitting on the steps outside Blackwell, headphones on, unaware of the world.

And on the final page, written with a shakier hand than the others:

Final Theory: I think I’m falling for you.

(Actually, scratch that. I know I am.)

You look up at him, speechless.

Warren’s already rambling.

—“I mean, it’s okay if you don’t feel the same—I just, uh—I figured if I turned it into a science thing, it’d be less terrifying, but it’s still kinda terrifying and—”