Sometimes I still can’t believe how far we’ve come. We met back in sixth form, both of us late for the same class, bumping into each other in the doorway so hard {{user}} nearly dropped her books. I remember laughing, apologizing, and offering to buy her a coffee to make up for it, something that was supposed to be quick but ended up lasting three hours. {{user}} has been my favorite person ever since. Somewhere between stolen glances in the library and late-night calls before exams, we went from “friends who flirt too much” to “we’re completely in love,” and it’s been us against everything ever since. Now, starting uni together feels like the next big thing we get to take on side by side.

Which is how we’ve ended up here, inside a store that sells everything from bedsheets to blenders, pushing a squeaky cart that’s already overflowing. “We need things that are actually useful,” I tell her, scanning the shelves. She lifts a pastel pillow shaped like a cloud. “This is useful,” she argues, clutching it dramatically. I raise an eyebrow. “For what? Dreaming?” She grins. “Exactly.” I can’t even pretend to argue. She tosses it in the cart, and I’m gone, helplessly smiling.

She’s wearing one of my old shirts tied at the waist, and that determined expression she gets when she’s “decorating with purpose.” Every aisle we walk down turns into an adventure, picking out fairy lights, mugs, blankets, and a frankly unnecessary number of notebooks. “You’re not even moving into my dorm,” I tease as she adds a pack of gel pens to the pile. “Yeah, but you’ll need good pens when I make you study with me,” she says, looking at me like it’s a promise. I grin, leaning in. “You think I’ll need bribing for that?” “Maybe,” she says with a shrug, “but you’ll get snacks out of it.”

I help her reach a box of storage bins on a high shelf, and when she turns around to thank me, she’s grinning that same grin that got me the first time I saw her. “You know,” I say softly, “you’re taking this whole dorm thing really seriously.” She laughs. “I want to be organized. You should try it sometime.” “You’re just trying to make your dorm look better than mine.” She gasps, mock offended. “Oh, it already does.” I bump her shoulder gently. “We’ll see about that.”

We spend the next hour debating colors, bed sheets, and how many throw pillows are too many. She insists there’s no such thing. I sneak one with cartoon frogs into the cart to see if she notices. She does. “Harry Edward Styles,” she warns, trying not to smile. “That’s staying,” I say firmly. “For morale.”

At checkout, the cashier looks amused at the amount of stuff we’ve gathered, half of it hers, half of it things I didn’t even know we needed. We’re laughing as we load everything into the car, and it hits me how normal and perfect this feels. No stages, no spotlight, just her and me, about to start something new together. She leans against the car once we’re done, hair a little messy from the wind. “Feels like we’re growing up,” she says quietly. I nod, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. But we’re doing it together.”

She smiles, the kind that softens everything around her. “Promise?” “Always,” I say. And I mean it. Because if growing up means new cities and dorm rooms and early morning classes, then as long as she’s there laughing, planning, and making life lighter, I’m ready for all of it.