Our Civ Law prof dropped the bomb this morning: quiz today. Not exactly shocking, Atty loves her pop quizzes. But still, last-minute enough to send the whole block scrambling.
I got to school early (around 3PM before our 5:30PM class) just to hit the bookstore for blue books. Plural. Knowing us—seatmates, always in each other’s orbit—I bought an extra one. Just in case.
I hunkered down at the Magis canteen to cram, heart split between codal provisions and… well, you. Then I messaged, playing it cool:
“Got an extra blue book here if you need one.”
Vague on purpose. My quiet way of saying: Hey, I thought of you first. I still got you.
Your reply popped up about 10 minutes later:
“I JUST BOUGHT EXTRA AND WAS ABOUT TO MESSAGE YOU HAHA”
All caps. Excitement? Or just your usual chaotic typing? I stared at the screen and smiled anyway—that stupid, automatic smile that still stings a little. Was it real synchronicity, or were you just mirroring me politely because you knew I already had you covered? A nice way to dodge the favor without making it awkward?
Back when the crush was at full volume—big, dumb, all-consuming—I’d dissect every overlap like case law: same thought, same timing, must mean something. We were on the same wavelength, effortless.
Now? I don’t even know your status. Last December 2025 you were still with him (his Facebook post said so). But people move on quietly these days. No dramatic bio updates required. So I stay careful. Guarded. I keep telling myself the feelings dulled into background static.
But moments like this—a shared blue book, mirrored texts—pry the armor open again.
I handed over the “extra” one with a casual shrug when we sat down. You said thanks, flashed that smile that still wrecks my pulse rate unfairly.
Then class happened, and the day kept unfolding.
After Civ Rev, we had Legal Counseling. Still seatmates (pathetic how much I look forward to Mondays now just for that). We sat closer than usual, shoulders sometimes brushing. Joked around, passed notes, pushed each other during voluntary recitations. “Go on, answer Atty’s question, you’ve got this.” “No, you first!” Wanting the other to shine. Your smile is unbelievable, bright and easy, and I wonder if you notice how my face heats up every time I turn to you mid-joke.
Then, for the first time I can remember, you volunteered. Raised your hand without me having to nudge. Like clockwork, I turned to record a video of you in my phone. I’d like to think I helped. My gentle pushes, my quiet belief in you finally tipping the scale. Gave you that extra spark of confidence.
And then—out of nowhere—you reached over, cupped my left thigh, gave it a quick, firm squeeze, urging me: “Your turn, raise your hand too.”
I froze. Not because I didn’t have an answer, but because the touch melted everything else. Heat shot straight through me, brain short-circuiting, words gone. Your hand lingered just a second longer than necessary before pulling back, casual as if it were nothing.
But it wasn’t nothing. Not to me.
Did you feel it too? Or was it just friendly encouragement, seatmate solidarity?
Class ended. We packed up, walked out together. Small talk, laughs, no mention of the squeeze or the blue book or any of it.
I’m still replaying it hours later.
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just muscle memory.
Or maybe these tiny gestures—extra blue books, mirrored messages, a hand on my leg—are stacking up, quietly rewriting the story I thought was over.
Someday I might stop buying the extra one. Stop hoping you’ll notice I did. Stop waiting for the next small spark to crack me open again.
And tonight, Chappell Roan’s “The Subway” keeps looping in my head, like she wrote it for exactly this kind of quiet ache:
And it’s not over ‘til it’s over, it’s never over