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If You Were The One - op81

PART ONE of the "When I Was Drowning" duology

PART TWO - Come Back (To What You Need)

If You Were The One - op81 x reader

MASTERLIST, OC MASTERLIST

Word Count: 22.6k!!

Track Five of the charm☘️ collab!

Featuring: Oscar Piastri, fem!Y/N, Courtney Carter (OC), Sofia Torres (OC), Zoey Valente (OC), Lando Norris, Logan Sargeant, Ollie Bearman, Lily Zneimer (these last three show up very briefly!)

Tags/Warnings: University AU - Year Abroad, suggestive themes (no outright smut), brief mentions of alcohol, general fluff, there is also hella angst though, use of Y/N (like 3 times lol), reader and Oscar are honestly idiots, Lily and Ollie are 100% plot devices.

Summary: You meet in a foreign country, and a feeling sparks between you, something new and exciting, and you choose to drown in it even if it can't last. A year after you left each other, you find that your lungs still yearn for the water.

Notes: I've genuinely put so much of my soul into this that there had to be two parts. It has been a long time since I've written something this long and let it just kind of flow out of me lol. Thank you so so much to @viapartridge for inviting me to this collab and sparking what I genuinely think is one of my best works to date <3

PLAYLIST yes it's in order of how the story progresses!!

It was your least favourite part of the university year—the end of it.

Not because you were finally free from the burdens assignments for at least a couple of months, but because you had to pack everything up before you could feel that freedom. Just as it was in your first year, you had accumulated far more possessions than would fit in the back of your parents' car, and they were going to kill you. Unlike in your first year, however, you had the experience of shoving everything in just one suitcase for your year abroad, so your packing would be far more efficient and perhaps you stood a chance at fitting everything in.

You'd cleared out your wardrobe that morning, your housemates having agreed that just doing all the laundry in one day would be easier, especially since you'd been blessed with a dryer. All your clothes were on the floor of your room with you—to your left, an unfolded pile; to your right, neat stacks organised into categories. You had a system, and it would make it into your suitcase, eventually.

Frantic steps scramble up the stairs and to your open door, barely stopping before missing it entirely. You don't look up—this is pretty normal chaos.

"Hey," your housemate, Austin, almost wheezes, pausing to nurse his lungs. "Is this yours? I've asked everyone else and no one has any idea where it's from."

Expecting a spare sock or something as insignificant, you glance up, but instead your eyes find something that would have knocked you to your knees had you not already been on them.

A hoodie you recognise all too well hangs from your friend's hand, dangling back and forth with the force of their previous run. It's not yours, but you are the one he left it to.

"Oh, yeah," you reply, your tongue heavy with the lie even as it leaves your mouth. "I, uh, forgot about it."

He tilts his head. "Huh. I've never seen you wear it. It's pretty nice."

You had worn it before. About a year or so ago. You just couldn't bring yourself after he'd left, so you'd buried it in the back of your wardrobe and hoped to forget about it.

But you just shrug as he tosses it to you, pretending the feeling of it in your hands doesn't burn. "Yeah, well, I…I haven't seen it. Must've been, like…hidden in the back of my wardrobe before I cleared it out."

"Huh. Okay." He's not convinced, but he can breathe now. Austin barely waves at you before running back to whatever he was doing; you barely catch the wave, your eyes firmly on the goddamn hoodie.

Throwing it away wasn't an option. It was a very nice hoodie, oversized enough on you for the sleeves to cover your hands but only when you let them, and it was a perfect shield against the cold of autumn in England, where you'd gotten it. Not too warm, but warm enough to not layer anything else on top of it. Then November came along and it wasn't enough anymore, and several things weren't enough by then.

You hold the item by its shoulders and examine it as if you were appraising a piece of art. Its white colour hadn't faded to grey, the small brand logo on the front hadn't been lost to the several washes it had been through, it looked good as new, like you'd taken care of it when in reality you'd buried it under everything else you wanted to forget, everything else time had taken away while this damn hoodie stood its test. And even then, you couldn't give it away, not unless you tore off some threads, the threads, and you knew it would be easier to shove it in the back of your wardrobe again than to rip your own stitches open like that.

With a deep breath, you searched for those threads, the definitive proof that this was indeed that hoodie, the one he'd left you with, almost hoping that you're imagining things. The right sleeve is in your hand and you turn it inside out only for the world to stop when you see them.

A messily embroidered 81 next to an equally messy 13.

A small sigh leaves your lips, but your shoulders don't relax when the air leaves your lungs. You're not sure why you trace your thumb over them. Perhaps it's to prove that they're real, etched into the hoodie forever, the threads holding memories you're trying really hard not to think about. But they've spent a year locked in a box in the back of your mind and these threads, these stupid numbers that meant nothing and everything, were functioning as the key.

You were a fool to think that you'd ever forgotten last year, that you'd ever forgotten how much you missed drowning in something temporary.

It starts in the spring.

Most academic years don't start in the spring, but your program did, so you land in England in the middle of everyone else's academic year as you start yours and try not to feel like you're horrendously behind everyone around you. And you are, because you overslept so much you had to rush for your right to study check fast enough for you to almost forget your passport. You'd gone swimming in the early morning, but apparently it had tired you out enough to block out your alarms and force you to run through campus. Even so, you weren't fast enough to avoid the line that formed outside the room despite the various desks doing the checks. You were behind everyone else. Good start.

It's not long before people are behind you, too, the line growing despite it being at a standstill. You wonder why they even asked you to book times, but you're slightly relieved that the line makes for a perfect excuse for your lateness. It barely inches forward, and soon you regret having rushed out of bed just to stand still. Curious, and bored, you turn to look at the line behind you and find that you are now basically the middle of it. You were going to be here a while, and you only had your passport, key, and phone.

While looking at the line, you catch the eye of the person behind you and shoot them a smile. Unlike you, they had left their room with more than one intention—their outfit, while just a comfy hoodie and jeans, was not quickly put together, and they carried a backpack with them. They shoot you a small smile back, but the rest of their expression is exasperated.

"Why even have us book time slots?" Their accent should give away where they're from, but it escapes you, and it bothers you that it does.

You shrug. "No idea. Maybe they didn't expect so many of us in one day."

"Not a very good first impression from them," they sigh. Their accent is just on the tip of your tongue, pricking at it, taking up most of your thoughts. You almost miss when they ask, "How long have you been waiting?"

You don't speak for ever so slightly too long. "No idea. Not long, I think."

They nod and you two fall silent, but you figure you may as well make use of this long line. Plus, you really want them to keep talking so you can finally get the pricking off your tongue and figure out what their accent is.

"I'm Y/N, by the way," you say, hoping you're not annoying them by continuing to talk, but their smile indicates you can continue. "It's nice to meet you, uh…"

With a growing smile, they point at a sticker on their chest. A name tag that reads Oscar Piastri, he/him has been sat there this whole time, giving you the perfect chance to be smooth, but you were too focused on his accent. Still are.

"Oscar," he says. "Nice to meet-"

"Australia!"

That was altogether too loud.

People turn to face you two as you cover your mouth, praying he found that a little funny and that it wasn't a bad impression from the university and you.

"Sorry!" you whisper, barely loud enough for him to hear. "I've been trying to figure out where your accent is from. It was annoying me."

Oscar's smile turns amused then, slightly lopsided. "Well, you are right, at least. Does that make it less embarrassing?"

You shake your head. "Only a bit."

"And you're from Spain, right?"

Shock runs through your body, and you freeze. "Now it's more embarrassing."

"Oh, don't worry, I'm just good with accents," he says, turning smug. "Also, I can read your passport."

You turn it upside-down and glare at him with a smile.

Though the length of the line was annoying, it allowed you to get to know Oscar better. You learn you're staying in the same building, on the same floor, you learn he's already made a couple of friends, you learn that you'll share some classes though you're on different degrees, and—critically—you learn that he's very easy to talk to.

In return, you tell him you'd only arrived yesterday, you tell him of the family you have in England, you tell him what building you're staying in and that your room number-13-is your favourite, and you'd intended to tell him more before his eyes went wide with realisation.

"You're the room opposite mine," he states as if something else has also clicked in his head.

"Your room number's 18?"

"Yeah." His expression is still pensive, looking for a missing puzzle piece. "It's my favourite number, but flipped. Mine's 81."

You smile. "I guess we both got lucky."

"Mhm." Then he pauses, thinking, and you doubt whether it's a pause or a stop until he speaks again. "Are you the one that left early this morning?"

"Yeah, for my morning swim. Then I came back for my nap." You figure you must be flustered—you'd been conscious about being quiet. "Does it bother you? I can-"

"No- wait." He blinks. "You…take a nap? After exercising in the morning?"

You nod slowly, praying that he doesn't judge you. "Otherwise I can't function the rest of the day."

Oscar wants to ask more but doesn't, though you can tell this will come up later. You make a mental note to ask him more about his favourite number and other things after you've gone through this check, if you do end up speaking again.

And you do.

You end up walking out of the right to study check side by side, since you were right behind each other and happen to have another international student event. Without arranging it, you go together, sitting next to each other in a lecture packed with other international students who are carrying backpacks and tote bags and are much more ready than you are. The discomfort settles in your chest like a pebble, small but with enough weight to bother you, before one of Oscar's friends shows up and sits on the other side of him. They're carrying as few things as you are, but they've got a name tag sticker like Oscar does, hanging onto their shirt for dear life. It reads Logan Sargeant, he/him.

"Right on time." Oscar rolls his eyes and gives him a smile, but he doesn't turn his back to you. "Where did you even go?"

"Sleep. That lecture was way too early," he breathes, stretching his hand out towards you as he sits. Oscar hadn't introduced you, but it was clear enough that you were there together. "I'm Logan."

"Y/N!" you shake his hand. "And you're from—let me guess…the States?"

Logan nods, but you barely catch it—your attention is taken by Oscar's chuckle. "Look at that, you've gotten better at identifying accents in the last twenty minutes."

You roll your eyes, trying desperately to think of some witty retort, but the lecture starts before you have to worry about it.

After the lecture comes an event right next door designed solely to allow international students to meet each other. Instead, you meet Lando Norris, a home student very reluctantly helping out with the new arrivals, doing only as much as he needs to for his paycheck to come in.

"At least you guys are staying a decent building," he mutters after you tell him where you're staying. "Some of the on campus rooms are mid."

But he happily shares other advice, like what time you should aim to get buses to the city to avoid the rush and where the best 'pres' (pre-club drinks, you learn) are usually hosted. It's not something you're particularly interested in, but Oscar and Logan are listening intently, so you at least make mental note of the information. He also, rather adamantly, reminds you to never leave your room key inside of your room. It's the kind that you can hang on your lanyard and leave on your door handle so you won't forget it, but Lando had anyway. He laments about his own 'locked out' story when he had to walk the twenty minutes to the 24-hour community support building at night, in the rain, alone. You stifle laughter at how he dramatises it—as do Oscar and Logan—but you once again keep mental note of the 'don't get locked out' information, this one in higher priority than the 'pres.'

For the rest of the event, you don't meet anyone, it's back in your shared kitchen where a small group of friends forms. Courtney, another student from the States, and Sofia, a student from Portugal, introduce themselves to you and the two men, but the three of you click the most as the two guys leave. Your room is the only one that has been unpacked, so you sit there and talk with the door to your room open so you can invite anyone who passes by. The invitation is extended to both Oscar and Logan, who join briefly only to greet the three of you before heading off to meet Lando as they had arranged. Despite the start to the day, you had met five people and you were sure at least three of them enjoyed your company.

Maybe you aren't so behind after all.

Settling into your routine doesn't take very long—by the time you turn your calendar to welcome the first full week of April you've learned where your classes are, when you've got time between classes to study, and you've only missed one day of swimming. As always, you nap after your swim and have a late breakfast, but one morning something changes, and your routine would change with it.

There was someone in the kitchen when you walked in filling the room with the warm and homey smell of a dish that had to be someone's lunch. Only once you see that it's someone you know by the stove—Oscar, concentrating on making sure his stirring didn't spill any of the food—do you start to gather the courage to compliment it.

"That smells lovely," you call out as you gather your utensils from the cupboard, ready to serve yourself some cereal as breakfast. Usually, you would cook, but the start of the year and its chaos has tired you out. "What is it?"

"Oh, thank you. It's really nothing special though. Just something I threw together." His eyes are sparingly on you as you go back and forth between the fridge and the counter, serving yourself the cereal. They turn from intrigued to judging as they narrow, the food on his pan forgotten.

"Are you…" Oscar pauses to blink. "…having breakfast?"

You tilt your head. "Yes?"

"At 11am?"

"It is still the morning."

"For the next…" he taps on his phone's screen on the counter, still not looking at the stove. "20 minutes."

You shrug and grab you bowl almost defensively. "Still the morning!"

He chuckles while you sit at the table, struggling to stifle your own laugh as he yelps when his food starts to sizzle aggressively, begging for his attention, but he barely saves it and sits in front of you once he plates it up.

"So," you start, speaking between mouthfuls of cereal. "Where are you headed today?"

"I wanted to check out the lake right behind this building." He taps on his phone and checks something, presumably his timetable. "I don't have any lectures till this afternoon, so I'm just going to sit there for a bit."

"Oh, that's nice. Apparently they get ducklings around this time of year."

"Yeah. I figure it'll be nice to just…look at them."

"Yeah." You can't recall your timetable off the top of your head, but you do know you don't have anything for a couple of hours, so you gather your courage again. Slower this time. "You mind if I go with you? We don't have to like, sit together or anything, but…we could walk there together."

"I don't mind." Then he shoots you a smile, and you don't like that it makes you stiffen as it flusters you. "I also don't mind if we do sit together."

So you sit together on a bench by the lake, settling into a comfortable silence between you two that quickly fills with ducks quacking and their ducklings making the smallest, cutest noises you have to stop yourself from squealing at. The university had done a good job of making it feel like the path and lake weren't on a university campus, having let the trees surround it so they could cover the buildings and give the illusion that this was in the middle of the woods and that there weren't classes happening a mere five minutes away.

"So," he starts, clearing his throat. "13's your favourite number?"

"Uh-huh." You manage to prevent yourself from reaching at him remembering.

"An unlucky number. Interesting."

"Yeah, well- It's not my fault that my favourite Formula 1 driver used that number."

He sits forward in shock. "Maldonado?"

You shrug. "Family's favourite. Didn't really have a choice but to support him."

Oscar chuckles, shaking his head. "I guess you didn't."

"And you. 81? That's kind of random."

"It is." he leans forward slightly, turning towards the lake. You choose not to display your excitement at the fact that he also knows Formula 1. "I genuinely didn't pick it for any reason. Just kept seeing it, and picked it. Getting 18 as my room number was very lucky."

"And I, getting my exact favourite number instead of it flipped, somehow picked the unlucky number?"

"Hey." He folds his arms and pretends to be upset, but his smile gives him away. "It's not my fault that the room numbers don't go up that high. Don't really have a choice but to be happy with it."

"I guess you don't." You shrug again, smiling back. "And, hey, it is 9×2, which you could reinterpret as 9 to the power of 2, which is 81."

"That's…" He blinks at you, first bewildered then every so slightly impressed. You choose to focus on the latter. "That's not how maths works."

"And that's exactly why I'm not taking a STEM degree."

He laughs earnestly and you join him, leaning back on the bench. It leaves a bright smile on both your faces even as he clears his throat to change the subject.

"So…Formula 1?"

That's how you get onto talking about why you did take the degree you're on, exactly what classes you're both taking, and the societies you plan on attending, finding that you've at least got Formula 1 society in common. This becomes your routine most weekdays. Sometimes you sit together, sometimes only one of you stays, sometimes you both walk on and separate from the lake onwards, but it becomes an unspoken agreement that you two will at least walk out of the building together. The routine helps you settle—you walk to your afternoon classes with Oscar, sometimes with Lando and Logan in tow, and you hang out with Courtney and Sofia in the evenings, sometimes with the guys dropping by to say hello. Sometimes Oscar opens his door, too, to offer extra space in the rare occasions when all of you hang out together. You tell them of your friends back home, they tell you about their families and dreams and you swear you see Courtney's gaze lingering on Lando for just slightly too long. It feels familiar, normal, and you finally know and truly feel that you can survive the year away from home.

"Courtney," Sofia says, dragging on the last syllable with a slight singing tune to it. Your room's door is closed now, meaning Sofia can finally say what you've both been thinking. "What was that?"

Courtney tilts her head in pretend confusion, a shocked blush on her cheeks. "What was what?"

"That…look." Her eyes soften and she pouts slightly, putting on a face of longing towards the entrance to your room where Lando had been standing. "The look you were giving Lando."

"I- I don't know what you're talking about!" Courtney folds her arms and turns away.

"No, no, Courtney," you chuckle. "I fear she does have a point."

She tuts at you in disappointment. "Oh, come on! Can you blame me?"

"No one's blaming you!" Sofia raises her hands. "I get it. Just…you know…"

"What?"

"He's from here, you're from the States…"

Courtney finally faces Sofia again. "Long distance is possible! Plus, I don't like him for, like…a committed thing. I think."

You chuckle. "Sure. Let us know how long that lasts."

And it's not very long, given how many nights Courtney spends at Lando's and how often you run into him in your corridor at night, but it doesn't interfere with your friendship at all. You and Sofia bet that they'll finally decide to officially date by the summer, and in the meantime you offer no judgement towards their exclusive but non-committal agreement. Courtney still hangs out with you guys most evenings, helping you continue to settle into a routine.

All that settling is worth nothing when you lock yourself out of your room one night.

With your phone in your room along with your room key, you don't know what time it is. You don't know if you can make it to the 24-hour community support building in your indoor slippers, and you don't know if you're decent enough in your loose shirt and shorts to even think about going out without some sort of jacket. Not that it would matter, you really hadn't packed as well as you should have for the colder end of the year and, even if it was late spring, the night in England was almost always cold. You'd lamented about this a couple of times when you'd gone out on late night snack runs, having had to borrow a jacket from one of the two girls.

What you do know is that both Courtney and Sofia are away, for one reason or another. Courtney is at Lando's again and Sofia is at an all-nighter event and you only know one other person on this floor. The door behind you.

With your eyes closed in a wince, you slowly turn.

The fact that you were almost a month and a half through the year makes it worse—you should know better by now—but you have no choice but to hang your head and knock on the door with the '018' on it. You knock loud enough to hope it wakes no one else up, quick and desperate because you were out of options. The knock is followed by complete silence, however, and your hope deflates as you prepare to brave the elements in nothing but your slippers and pyjamas.

Then you hear shuffling.

You feel light return to your eyes when Oscar opens the door, rubbing his eyes and moving like he's half asleep until he blinks and sees you, eyes widening with a worry that surprises you.

"What…" He blinks again as if to make sure he's not still asleep, dreaming this up. Then he whispers, "Are you okay?"

"Yes! Yes, god, I'm so sorry I just-" You inhale sharply, trying to slow down, but it's to no avail. At least you manage to lower your voice to a whisper, matching his. "I locked myself out. Do you have any shoes I can borrow? I'll return them as soon as I'm back. Or tomorrow, so I don't wake you up. God, I'm so sorry-"

"Just shoes?"

"Yeah. Just-"

"It's 3am. You'll freeze out there."

"It's not that long a walk-"

"Hold on." He gestures for you to hold his door and you oblige, watching as he grabs a white hoodie from the chair by his desk, the only thing out of place in what you could see of his room. He also grabs some trainers for himself and a pair of slippers for you, more fit for the outdoors than yours. "Here. And I'll go with you."

"Wait-" You look down at the hoodie in your hands, then the shoes by your feet, then back at him, only then processing his offer. His statement. He had already slipped the trainers on. "You don't have to-"

"It's okay, really." He checks he's got his own key as he puts on his jacket, closing the door once you've stepped back into the hallway and left your slippers in there. "I'll sleep better if I see you going back in your room safe."

No words come to mind. Your mouth dries, and you clear your throat.

"…I could just text you." Guilt sinks into you as you borrow his slippers, getting even worse when you pull his hoodie on. Having him next to you would serve as an even more constant reminder of how you'd inconvenienced him. "You really don't have to come."

Oscar pauses for a moment, examining you. If you had to guess, you looked terrified in a hoodie and slippers too big for you and eyes wide with the fear of being any sort of inconvenience to anyone. Perhaps he felt bad for you, hence why he wanted to come with you, but he probably felt equally bad forcing you to appreciate his company.

He raises his hands in defeat. "If you don't want me to go, I won't. But it really doesn't bother me. It may even be a nice walk."

Given that he was offering, and that you really would like the company, you admit defeat, too. "Only if it really won't bother you."

"It won't, I promise." Oscar leads the way through the hallway, towards the exit. "Come on. You need your sleep before you go swimming tomorrow, right?"

You sigh. "I've given up on going at this point."

He chuckles quietly; you feel your guilt ease bit by bit.

Oscar wasn't wrong, the walk was nice. It was a clear, starry night, too cold even with his hoodie on—curse pyjama sets with shorts. You're shivering and he notices, but you only have to reject his offer to wear his jacket twice, which you appreciate almost more than his chivalry. To distract yourself, you point out the few constellations you recognise and Oscar listens, pointing out that he's not used to seeing these this time of year back in Australia. That reminds you that, despite how close you two are growing, your respective homes are on two different hemispheres, but you catch sight of the building you're looking for and dismiss the thought. Relief washes over you when they give you a replacement for your key, warning you that the old one won't work anymore but you don't care. You have access to your room again, and Oscar can now go back to sleep knowing that you're safe. You thank him and say goodnight—"or what's left of it"—as you close the door to your room, relieved twice as much.

Until you realise you've still got his slippers and hoodie.

Before you can process your actions you're texting him with an urgency that isn't needed, this could have waited until the morning.

You: hey!! I've still got your hoodie and slippers You: sorry :(

Three bubbles bounce at the bottom of your screen, making you jump. You supposed it made sense that he was still awake.

Oscar: Don't worry Oscar: I've ALSO got your slippers Oscar: We can swap tomorrow before we go to the lake You: okay :) sorry still Oscar: And don't worry about the hoodie

As you blink at the message, you think you must be dreaming. You read it once, twice, making sure you've got it right before replying.

You: ??? You: are you SURE Oscar: Yeah Oscar: I've got others Oscar: You didn't bring many jackets, right? Oscar: You need it more than I do

Again, you examine the message. Again, you're convinced you must have fallen asleep and that you've imagined this whole text exchange.

You: thank you!!! You: I'll give it back when I buy a jacket lol Oscar: You don't have to, genuinely Oscar: Gn, I'll see you tomorrow

That hoodie is the first of many things you two end up sharing, as he continually insists that you keep it.

You're relieved when, a couple of days later, you finally get a chance to call your best friend from home, Zoey. Her voice is slightly muffled by her phone's microphone. Her face isn't at all to scale. It still feels like she's right there, however, which makes you almost feel at home. Hearing someone else speak Spanish feels like nostalgia, making you miss being surrounded by it, but seeing Zoey—even if on a tiny phone screen—makes how much you miss home a little better.

"Well, he sounds nice." You'd been telling her about Oscar, about how embarrassed you'd been when you got locked out. "Glad you've got someone looking out for you."

You tilt your head, fully focusing on the phone that was carefully balanced on your desk suddenly. "I think he was just being nice. No…special treatment, or looking out for."

Zoey raises an eyebrow. "God, he must be a saint, then. Even I wouldn't have done that for you in the first month of knowing you."

"Hey! You better be kidding."

"I am, I am."

Looking out for you. The statement sticks in your brain like a band-aid, though you're not sure what wound it's covering. More importantly, you're not sure why you can't bring yourself to take it off. Instead, you let it stick to your mind, you let it keep haunting you. It's fine.

You swear it means nothing.

It heats up in the summer.

You're not sure exactly when it started but you know the nights are longer, the air is warmer and your calendar reads 'July' when you notice Oscar looking at you for longer than you think is normal. Just as before, you swear it means nothing. The warm feeling in your stomach means nothing, and are those butterflies fluttering in there, too? No. Nothing.

It means nothing that every day the space between you on the bench by the lake shrinks from centimetres to inches to nothing without either of you saying anything. It means nothing that you know which class he's going to and where, that you've considered running into him there by 'coincidence,' that you know he's been late because he's stayed at the lake with you too long. It means nothing that you can hardly catch your nap after swimming, unable to sleep with the low hum excitement running through your body because you'll be seeing Oscar in a few hours. It means nothing that whenever you do go to Formula 1 society events together, you know for a fact his eyes are barely on the sessions and are mostly on you instead.

It means nothing that you're guilty of that, too.

It's a silly crush at best. Oscar was an attractive man and he'd shown nothing but his good side since you met. He's been nice, he's looked out for you, you both get along and make each other laugh and, on a surface level, you two are compatible. On a surface level. One date, perhaps, assuming he'd even want to take you (and you're confident enough to assume so). You pretend you don't know enough about him to know it could definitely make it to at least two. Or three.

You swear it means nothing.

Okay, fine, maybe it is something.

But you keep swearing it means nothing when you wave at Oscar as he leaves your room one night, leaving just you and the two girls and a weird tension in the air as the door closes behind him.

Sofia sighs, taking you out of your thoughts. "It's happening again."

"What? What's happening again?"

But Courtney doesn't help you—she just shakes her head solemnly. "We've lost another one."

"Lost? What?" You look at one then at the other and find no answers. Only mourning looks.

Sofia puts a hand on your shoulder, head low, and sighs. "You're giving Oscar the same look that Courtney gave Lando."

It's meant to land as some sort of revelation, but you already knew what you were doing; he was doing it right back.

You roll your eyes. "So what if I am?"

The room stills. Both girls blink at you, baffled by your lack of defensiveness; you just shrug and sit on your bed, leaning against the wall.

"Huh." Sofia tilts her head, almost as if she's trying to get the thoughts in it to move around, but quickly gives up. "I was expecting some resistance."

"I get it, though. No point in denying it." Courtney relaxes again. "But…you know…"

You sigh. "The distance?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, god." Sofia grabs one of your cushions and hugs it to her chest. "I mean- Courtney has a whole ocean to deal with, but you, you guys have-"

"Hemispheres."

Sofia nods, agreeing with Courtney. "Yeah. Not saying you shouldn't do anything, just…be careful."

"I know." And you are being careful. You're merely dipping your toes in the water, testing it, not daring to even guess how deep it is yet. "I don't really know what it is yet. It could mean nothing. And it may not even be a long term thing."

Courtney snorts. "You saw how long that lasted with me and Lando."

"About as long as I thought it would," you giggle.

"Exactly."

"Just…" Sofia shifts uncomfortably, unsure what to say. "We're here for you if he ends up being an asshole."

You giggle, sure that he's anything but. "Thank you."

At this point, denial isn't working in your favour. You let the warm feeling in, you sit on the metaphorical dock and let the water up to your calves, still not feeling the bottom. Perhaps it all means something, and that's okay, but it makes you do things you wouldn't normally do, so long as Oscar brings it up.

"So…there's that club night this week." Oscar says when you're sat by the lake one day, avoiding your eyes as a nervous pink tint coats his cheeks. "It's meant to be a fun one, since it's technically summer break for most people."

"Right." And you already know where this is going, but you wait for him to say it anyway.

He shifts, his arm pushing against yours as if you could get any closer. "Were you thinking of going?"

Normally, the answer would have been no, but Oscar was asking; if he was going, it couldn't be that bad.

"I figured I should try going to one in England. At least once." You're not lying. You were just going to leave it until later in the year, originally. "This one…doesn't seem like a bad first."

He smiles, finally looking at you again. "I'll go if you go."

There's the warm feeling in your stomach again. You dip further into the water, allowing it up to your knees, but you're very much still on land. Regardless, that warm feeling makes you do things you wouldn't normally do. Like going to the club.

"Sure." You smile back, and you swear his grows wider in response. "I'll go."

Clubs aren't your thing. But, apparently, Oscar is your thing. Someone you have a thing for. So, once you know Courtney and Sofia were going, you fully decide to go.

It's normal. It's the classic university experience. Your friends will be there, Oscar will be there, but you swear that's not why you're going, no. You want to go. For your own, Oscar-independent reasons, you want to go. You're supposed to want to go. In front of the mirror in your room, you repeat this to yourself over and over in your mind as you grip the sink. You look flawless, having re-done your make up at least once to make it perfect, and wearing a dress that shows off just enough of 'what you've got' to be classy but still fit for the club. You wear a thin jacket over it, though. Not enough to fend off the cold, but enough to cover you up if you need it. Just in case.

'Pres' come first, which comprises mostly of you trying not to drink too much—you barely drink at all—and trying to ignore the way Oscar's eyes linger on you for just a little too long. He's admiring you, maybe even intrigued by what sits under your jacket, but you can tell he's not imagining it. Not without your permission. After a couple wiggling eyebrows from your friends, you down one more shot. Or two.

You ignore that the water is up to your waist and you don't mind it at all.

The club feels like a sea of people, dark and dense and hard to breathe in. It's not your first time at a club, but you've never loved the sticky floors and bright lights and blaring music of it all. Your earlier carefulness around alcohol backfires—you're not drunk enough to enjoy this. You stay on the shore of people as Courtney drags a more sober Sofia to the middle of the crowd, closely followed by Lando and Logan. Oscar doesn't follow, staying next to you instead; you should feel surprise but you almost expected him to slot right next to you, shoulder to shoulder as if there wasn't plenty of space to his left. To your right, there's a pillar. It's his move, and he chooses the space right next to you.

He leans even closer, only so you'll hear him. Of course. "So the middle of the crowd isn't your scene?"

You shake your head. "I like my personal space."

"Very fair." As if listening to you, he moves so he's facing you instead. "What do you usually do, then?"

"People watch." Your eyes meet his even in the dark; by people, you suddenly mean watching him.

He nods, you watch him swallow hard. His eyes hold that same admiration as before, that intrigue hidden behind them, and you suddenly grow bolder. You let the jacket fall of your shoulders, you let Oscar watch as it reveals the skin beneath, only spaghetti straps holding the dress up. If he blushes, you don't see it, which means he can't see your blush either.

"It's really warm," you say as your reason, your excuse, and he nods as if he believes you. "Figured I might as well take this off."

He doesn't speak for several beats; you let yourself be flattered as he clears his throat. "Did you, uh, want to leave it in the cloakroom? There's a pile of our stuff there."

So you follow him towards the quiet of the cloakroom and 'cooldown area,' in which some people sit and take a break from the speed and volume of the night ahead. You set your jacket where Oscar tells you to but keep your bag on you, figuring you'll be in a worse situation if that gets taken than if your jacket does.

As you turn back towards the blaring music and bright lights, Oscar inhales sharply next to you. You tilt your head with a hum and he stiffens as if he wishes you hadn't noticed.

"You know, I…" He stops with another inhale, shorter, intense, like he's gathering courage from the air around him. In this light, you can see a light pink dusting his cheeks. "…When I brought up the club night, I meant to ask if you'd come with me."

The admission doesn't make the world stop. You're still holding on to the metaphorical dock for dear life, wondering why you can't feel the bottom, but your lips curl into a teasing smile anyway as another hum escapes them. Oscar presses his lips into a thin smile, annoyed that you're making him spell it out.

"So…" He holds out his hand towards you, thin smile turned lopsided and perfect like the ones that struck right through you. "Would you give me the honour of walking back in together and pretending this was a date all along?"

It takes you a mere moment to decide. You take his hand and don't care that it makes you sink deeper, only one hand holding onto solid land now. "As long as I can tease you about it for at least the rest of the night."

Oscar chuckles as he leads you back towards the crowd. "You can tease me about it forever if you don't let go of my hand."

Forever. The three syllables are loaded even if he doesn't mean it that way. In your head, you lose your grip on safety as he pulls you forward, but you don't let go of either.

Not yet.

Together, you go back to your people watching, though you spend most of the time with your eyes on each other. You're still hand in hand, which you're sure you'll have to explain to your friends tomorrow. How would you explain it? It was a date. It was casual physical contact. It didn't mean nothing, you'd worked that out, but it didn't have to mean everything. It doesn't mean everything. It's just your hand in Oscar's, warm and comfortable, the sensation making every other feeling around you—the bass at your feet, the lights blinding you—worth gritting your teeth through. Except you find yourself swaying along to the music, singing the lyrics you know. You find yourself enjoying it, tipsy on something that isn't alcohol or quite love but just as addictive as both.

Growing even bolder, you lean closer to him. Just so he can hear you. Of course. "A date, huh?"

"Starting the teasing now?"

"Uh-huh," You chuckle as you grin. "It's not exactly common to ask someone on a date when you're at the place you meant to ask them to. How does that happen?"

He huffs out a laugh and turns to face you. There's a pillar behind you now; you know he's aware of that. "I can explain that."

You glance up at him; he's so close that you have to glance up. "Enlighten me."

"You, with everything you do, and everything you say," Oscar steps closer, his grip on your hand tightening. "Make me nervous."

It's another admission that doesn't surprise you, but it makes heat rise to your cheeks anyway. You try to maintain composure as you force a laugh. "Everything I do, like locking myself out and having breakfast at midday?"

"Like exist."

Your breath catches; his smile turns smug as you falter. He decisively wins this exchange, but you can still try to salvage it with an eye roll and a grin and some witty line that isn't coming to you. Instead, you swallow and stammer, "I-…uh… that's nice. A nice compliment. I…thank you."

He grins, you blush deeper, and he's standing so close he can probably see it even in the dark. As if he hadn't already won, he places his palm on the pillar, leaning on it as his grin grows when your eyes widen. A lopsided grin.

You're in trouble.

His voice deepens. "And, apparently, I do the same to you."

"Glad to know your observation skills are intact."

"And I'm glad to know your humour is also."

Behind his eyes is desire, but above it all is a question. Oscar will not move until you do. In your head, you finally let go of safety: one hand on the side of his face, the other still in his, none securing you to land, making his eyes widen and your grin grow as if you've recovered this exchange. It doesn't feel like falling, not when it's water you've let yourself fall into, not when you know how to swim. You can swim back any time, you tell yourself. Your head is still above water.

That is, until he places his lips on yours; you find that drowning is actually quite pleasant.

You're not sure when it goes from just a peck to several kisses, slowly gravitating towards each other again and again, like you aren't in the middle of a crowd. It had been a long time since it felt like you were in a crowd, like it wasn't just the two of you dancing around each other's feelings, anywhere but at the club with friends you now had even more to explain to. You're also not sure when your hand wandered to the back of his neck, followed by his on your waist, followed by pulling each other even closer. A part of you that feels shy about this gets silenced by the bigger part of you that wants to stay underwater forever, especially if it feels like this. You're drunk on the feeling immediately, desperately wanting more, convincing your lungs that they can get oxygen from water, and he matches your desperation by placing a hand on the back of your head—through your hair—to pull you closer. That's when something shifts. As soon as it starts to turn slightly hungry, Oscar pulls away like he's suddenly remembered where he is. There's still desire in his eyes when he grins at you. Lopsided still. You get the sense he's not done with you yet, and you don't want him to be.

"You okay?" He asks, his breaths short and warm against your face.

You nod, still dazed and unsure if you can even form words. There's concern all over his expression and he takes a small step back. The space helps, but your body misses where his hands were. You nod again, sure this time.

"Yes, I'm okay," you say, watching as his shoulders drop in relief. "You?"

"Perfect," he replies with an exhale. "I've…kind of wanted to do that for ages."

A giggle escapes your lips; you catch him glancing at them. "I could tell. That explains how close you've been sitting next to me lately."

"I had to take my shot at some point."

"I'm very glad you did."

There's still that desire in his eyes, on the surface now that he knows you're okay, and you're sure your eyes hold the same want.

Suddenly, he clears his throat awkwardly. "Did you, uh… want to head back to mine?"

You tilt your head with an amused smile. "Already sick of the date you invited me to?"

"I just think somewhere more private might make a better place to…continue it."

And this is something you're supposed to want. It's something part of you wants, enough of you to persuade the part that feels uneasy about it.

"That's true," you say after a beat, still fighting yourself when he stretches his hand out for you to hold.

You inhale; one side wins the fight. This is something you want, you convince yourself.

So you take his hand again, you forget about whatever land was behind you and whether you can even reach it again, and follow him to wherever he takes you.

The night is starry like it was when you'd locked yourself out; you don't stop to stargaze. You don't even slow down to look up at the twinkling lights, to bask in the relief of the quiet outdoors, to put your thin jacket on to attempt to shield yourself from the cold. It's not like either of you are in a rush, it's that you're afraid the spark will die out by the time you're able to tend to it again and you desperately want to do whatever it was you were getting yourself into back in that crowded room. Judging by the grin he shoots you every so often as you walk back, he wants to do just that, too.

Just like going to the club, you're supposed to want this. Just like going to the club, it is the normal university experience. You can handle a one-night stand. You want to handle a one-night stand.

At least until your lungs suddenly yearn from air again.

It's somewhere between the kitchen and his room that the uneasy part of you starts to gain ground. His hand is still in yours when he opens his door, gesturing for you to go in and you do before you even think about it. The door closes behind you and you flinch, so much that your grip on his hand tightens as if searching for comfort. There's a change in him then.

"Hey," he says, voice soothing; it would work if it didn't feel like you were in a fishbowl. "Are you alright?"

Lying crosses your mind. You could probably pretend your way through an encounter, but that didn't feel fair. Not to either of you. Firstly, you don't want this; secondly, he wouldn't want this if he knew you didn't. You don't want this. Instead of lying, you inhale and blink rapidly, finding a hint of tears that you're really hoping will dry before they fall.

"I don't think so," you admit with a shaky voice. You let go of his hand and slip your jacket back on, feeling too exposed in the spaghetti straps so you hug yourself and force the fabric to cover more of you than it was designed to.

Oscar just watches you, worried and careful as if he thinks he could scare you if he examined you too hard. There's no space in your mind to lament the spark that is certainly now gone, but there's plenty of space for frustration. Any confidence you had before is gone; you're not drunk literally or metaphorically. You barely notice that you're standing in silence—your thoughts are too loud.

"I don't want to have sex. Or- anything like that," you blurt out suddenly, letting it out so there's a little more space in your mind. His expression is bewildered as he opens his mouth to speak, but you're quick to speak again. "I'm sorry if I led you on-"

"No- hey, you didn't, it's okay." He takes an unsure step forward as if he wants to hold you, but he doesn't move his hands. "We never set expectations. It's okay if we just kiss. Or just sit around. Or if you want to go to your room and sleep. Anything you want is okay, I promise."

Your arms fall at your side, letting go of the jacket. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

It takes everything in you not to let the tears fall in relief. "Okay."

"What do you actually want?" He asks gently. "Literally anything. Even swap beds, or go back, or something. Just say the word."

What you actually want. You haven't actually asked yourself that, but you don't want to spend too long thinking about it. What you want, not what you're supposed to want, is a cosy night in, and you want Oscar to join you.

"I want to go back to my room, and I want to get the hell out of this dress." He tries not to let it be evident, but you can tell there's the slightest bit of disappointment as his face drops. It flatters you. "But, um… If you wanted to join me after that, for a movie or something… I certainly wouldn't say no."

His face lights up again, more than before. That flatters you more. "I'd certainly enjoy that."

It's not long before you two are sat on your bed with some random film on your laptop, carefully placed at the foot of the bed. You're as close as you would be on that bench by the lake, wearing what you were on the night you got locked out, but it's loaded this time. The spark hadn't died, it was just dormant, humming between you like electricity. Your head is on his shoulder and it's easy and new all at once. If not for that humming, you'd be dozing off by now, safe and comfortable.

Oscar shifts next to you, his arm moving with intention to wrap around your shoulders. His eyes meet yours with a question and you nod, letting him hold you. You're sure it's the most comfortable you've ever felt in what is, in your mind, the deep end of the pool. But there's thoughts behind his eyes, and he's also not watching the movie at all. He opens his mouth then closes it, then does it again, as if debating what to say or if to say it at all.

"Why didn't you say anything at the club?" He asks suddenly, elaborating when he catches your body tensing "I'm not upset, or anything, just…worried about, um…did I force you?"

You sit up so suddenly you almost hit your head on the wall. "No! God, no, Oscar- you're okay. I swear."

"Okay." He nods, more to himself, and you feel his grip on you tighten. "Okay, that's good."

"I didn't say anything because...I don't know." Except you do know. You're just not sure how much you should say for a second, eventually landing on everything. "It just… felt like something I should want."

Oscar tilts his head, eyes narrowed in curiosity, and you sigh dramatically and lay your head on his shoulder again. It was time to unpack.

"I like you. I mean, I really enjoyed kissing you. One figures that the logical follow up to that was… more. Especially after a couple of drinks at the club, except I guess I didn't have enough drinks, or something. I don't know. Either way, I thought I was supposed to want to sleep with you tonight, but… I don't. And I know that's okay with you, just… felt like the next step in the script, you know?"

After a beat, he hums thoughtfully, gently rubbing your arm. "But it's not the next step in yours."

You laugh. "I guess not."

"And that's okay."

"Yeah, I know." As best as you can, you smile up at him. "Just… feels weird to not want something I feel like I should."

"Right." Behind his eyes, the cogs turn in his head, but you'd drive yourself insane trying to figure out in which direction and to what end. "And…kissing me. Back at the club. Was…was that something you were meant to want, or something you actually wanted?"

"Something I actually wanted." You stiffen, stunned by your own quick reply, but you just as quickly relax. The admission is like a weight of your shoulders. "Like I said, you didn't coerce me into anything. Really."

"Okay." Again, the cogs turn, but this time his cheeks warm up, giving you a hint as to where this might be going. "So, uh…hypothetically, if I asked if I could kiss you again, what would you say?"

You know what you want to say.

Of course it's a yes, but you don't say that. Instead, you lean in closer, raising an eyebrow as his blush deepens. He wasn't getting away with hypotheticals. "Is that something you're hypothetically asking, or something you're actually asking?"

"Something I'm actually asking."

His breath is warm on your face as he speaks, looking at your lips with an impressive restraint. For a moment, you're tempted to see how long he can hold it, but you're not sure you're lasting much longer, either.

You take in a deep breath. "Then my answer is yes, you can."

Only when you're done speaking, when he's processed your answer, does Oscar gently place his lips on yours.

It's different this time. It's delicate and careful, like he's waiting for you to give permission for his every move, so you lead. You deepen the kiss with a hand on the back of his head, reassuring him you want this as much as he does. Again, you enjoy the feeling of water in your lungs, and you become curious as to how deep you have to go before you hit the bottom. Drunk off his lips again, you figure you never will. You figure that this is infinite, until you pull away, resting your forehead on his.

"What is this?" You murmur, mostly asking the universe, but hoping Oscar has the answer anyway.

"Honestly?" He laughs, shaking his head. "I've got no idea."

You blink. "That can't be good."

He counters with a shrug. "It can't be bad, either."

Laptop forgotten, you bounce off your bed and begin to pace.

"We really don't have to define this," he insists, still smiling, but it drops when he sees that you're serious.

You shake your head to yourself. "You will not situationship me."

"I don't want to."

"But you're from Australia-"

"I know."

"-so we can't relationship this, either." Two hemispheres. Two oceans. Several hours. Thousands of miles. You don't even entertain the idea, and he nods along.

"What do you suggest, then?"

You stop pacing to roll your eyes at him. "Just- we're supposed to define stuff like this."

"Didn't we just go over how things that you're supposed to do aren't always right?"

"I'm pretty sure this one is."

"But what if it isn't?"

It's a terrible idea. Even someone who's somehow found pleasure in drowning in him knows that, and yet the temptation is too strong. You bury your face in your palms briefly and fail to keep your voice down.

"What if we just- oh, I don't know, let it sweep us away? Just let it happen?" You huff, pausing your pacing to turn towards him. "Does that sound stupid?"

Oscar shakes his head, that lopsided grin on his face making your cheeks heat up. "It sounds perfect."

This is where the problem starts.

You two never define it. You don't waste time on the intricacies and the details of it all, instead you live it, you let yourself be consumed by it. Why bother defining something that would soon no longer exist?

That logic is sound then.

You take your spot in the bed again and lean on him. "Zoey is going to tell me this is a bad idea."

"And how often is she right?"

"Always."

He laughs, wrapping an arm around your shoulders again. "Guess we're screwed, then."

"Maybe if we communicate clearly, it'll be fine," you reason, humming to yourself in thought. "Exclusive?"

"Absolutely."

You smile and bury your face in his neck. "Then I think we're okay."

Optimistic as you are, for as long as you can, you let yourself drown in it, whatever it is, and eventually you will enjoy it so much that air will feel foreign in your lungs. But, for now, you're just falling asleep on his shoulder, mumbling that he can stay over as long as he puts your laptop away. You don't know just how far into the deep end you've just thrown yourself, you just know that he's really warm and comfortable to sleep on, and that whatever this is can't be so bad if it's this pleasant.

When you wake up the next morning—far too late for your morning swim—he's not next to you, but he hasn't just abandoned you. Right above the pile of texts from Courtney and Sofia and even Logan—not concerned texts, just overly excited and curious ones—is a text from him from earlier in the morning.

Oscar: Hey, sorry I left you Oscar: Got hungry and went to make breakfast Oscar: I've got your key, I'll be right back

"Morning."

You jump, eyes darting towards the source of the voice.

Oscar is sat at your desk, eating what look like very good pancakes. Sitting up, you rub your eyes, and you're a little surprised that he's still there.

"You're here," you say. "I thought you were still in the kitchen."

"Yeah. Sorry." His eyes flick from you to his food, then back to you. "I was going to make you breakfast, but I didn't know what you wanted."

"Aw. I appreciate the intention."

Oscar shakes his head, putting his fork down. "I still intend to. What do you want?"

"You really don't-" but he raises his eyebrows at you, signalling that this argument will go nowhere. You sigh. "Okay. What are the options?"

"Anything you want." As smooth as that was, he clears his throat and mutters. "Ingredient dependent, unfortunately."

You hum as you stretch. "Any pancakes left over?"

"Yeah. Did you want some?" You nod enthusiastically, making him chuckle. "Okay. Did you want anything on them?"

"I can go get them-"

"I'll get them for you." His smile warms when he sees your unease, trying to reassure you. "I promise it's okay."

You believe him. "Okay. There should be honey somewhere in my cupboard."

And he knew which one it was. He'd watched you make your breakfast while he made lunch enough times to know where all of your stuff was. You tell him to knock before he comes back—you want to get changed—and he goes to the kitchen, leaving his pancakes half eaten.

You stand, checking your phone again. It was just about 10am—whatever lectures you had weren't until much later, so you don't rush to change, but there's another reason you don't move. The date on your phone reads August 13th, and you're supposed to be leaving in January.

You swallow and double check it on your calendar, finding that it is indeed August and pretend that you're not aware that it's four months. Sixteen weeks. How many days? Whatever seven by sixteen is. You never were that good at maths, and that doesn't matter because you really don't want to know the exact number of days anyway. Giving yourself a shake, you get on with getting changed, trying to get the four months off your shoulders. They wrap around you like chains instead.

Just as you pull a shirt over your head, leaving only your shoes left, there's a knock at your door. You let Oscar in, smiling at the plate in his hands.

"You could have finished your breakfast first," you tell him teasingly, taking the plate from him. "Thank you."

"It's no problem, really." He gestures towards the desk, offering it to you, but you shake your head and sit on your bed instead. With no further insistence, he takes the desk. "Look at that, we can have breakfast together now."

"We eat together all the time."

"Usually, I'm having lunch."

You roll your eyes with a smile and take a bite of the pancakes, trying your hardest to disguise how difficult it is to do while sat on your bed—you do not want to make him feel bad for taking the desk.

When you manage to eat a little, you hum. "These are really good. I'll need the recipe."

"Oh, sure." Oscar picks up his phone, a smirk tugging at his lips despite him trying to disguise it. "The first step is going to the shop on campus and buying them."

You feign shock with a gasp. "You didn't make them?"

"I never said I did."

"Touché."

He finishes eating before you do, setting his plate aside. It's then that you notice he's dressed and ready for the day, his backpack next to him on the floor, and you remember—it's one of the days on which he has an earlier lecture.

"I'll do washing up when I get back-"

"No, don't worry." You stand and stack your plate on his. "You made breakfast, I'll wash our plates."

With a raise of your eyebrows, you get him not to argue. Instead, he grins. "Sounds like an arrangement a married couple would make."

"We did say exclusive!"

"True." He leans down to grab his bag and walks past you towards the door. "I promise I will exclusively make you breakfast."

Then he turns towards you, standing in front of you, one hand on the strap of his bag and the other tentatively moving towards yours. His eyes flick to your lips, and you blush.

"Is this something we're going to do?" You ask, grabbing his free hand. "Goodbye kisses?"

"If it's something you want, and not…"

"Something I'm supposed to want," you fill in for him.

He nods. "Yeah."

And you don't have to think much about it. Using his hand, you gently pull him down towards you, intending to kiss him. Somewhere along the way, you change your mind—you end up with your arms around his neck and chin resting on his shoulder; his arms end up around your waist, pulling you towards him. An embrace felt more fitting, at least for now. It ligers for longer than your usual embraces—which weren't frequent but happened nonetheless—because everything is different now. Or at least, it will be.

For four months. You hug him tighter as if that'll muffle the time ticking by.

He gently rubs your back. "As much as I'd love to continue this, I unfortunately do have somewhere to be."

"Yes- sorry," you say, moving away from him suddenly. "Go be- academic, or whatever it is you do."

"You know what I do," he chuckles. "Unless you never listen to me."

"I always do. Impossible not to. Your voice really carries."

You only hear him scoff in amusement—he's already heading out, standing in your doorway. "I'll see you later."

But something was missing. Something you wanted.

"Wait."

You're not sure what comes over you then, but before you know it you're standing beside him again and that's when you kiss him. Quickly. Shyly. Like he didn't have you pinned against a wall last night.

Oscar smiles into it even if did last just a second. "So we are doing goodbye kisses."

A nod is all you can manage.

"Noted." Then he kisses you again, because he wants to, because he can.

But this time, there's a yelp down the corridor.

You peek your head out of the door and find that Courtney had left her room just in time to catch what had happened, and now she was looking at you and then at Oscar and then back at you, blinking furiously as if she'd hallucinated it.

Eventually, she decides she didn't.

"I'm getting Sofia," she says decisively, turning on her heel towards Sofia's room before you can protest. "Stay. There!"

Oscar leans towards you. "I'll leave you to deal with that," he says into your ear before turning and heading out of the building.

"Traitor!" You call out, but he doesn't turn back, just laughs. He does have a degree to pass, after all.

It's not long before Courtney and Sofia force themselves into your room, rambling incoherently about 'what happened last night' and 'how dare you not tell us.' They take their spots—one at your desk, the other on your floor with a pillow—and look at you with their eyes like spotlights. You don't know what they expect. You don't know what they want. Hell, you don't even know how to explain what you and Oscar decided on

You sit cross-legged on your bed and sigh. "Ask away."

Courtney cleared her throat. "You left together last night. Did he-"

"Did he spend the night here?"

"Yes, and-" Courtney inhales suddenly, pointing at your desk. The plates. "There's two plates on this desk!"

Sofia gasps rather dramatically, you roll your eyes. "You had breakfast together. Did you make it? Did he? Oh my god-"

"Are you guys, like-"

"Dating. Exclusively? Are you dating?"

Courtney and Sofia had a lot of questions; you couldn't answer them all, you couldn't even dream of getting a word in. They were speaking too fast for you to even process them.

Except for that last one. You catch that one.

You shrug, and you can't believe that you do. "Something like it."

They tilt their heads and exclaim in unison, "Something like it?"

"Yeah. Exclusively."

In their opinion, you're too calm. They blink at you like you're speaking a different language until Courtney tilts her head side to side and accepts what you've said.

"I give it a week till he's calling you his girlfriend." She shrugs, lounging on your chair.

"He can do that if he wants," you counter, scared that you half mean it.

"Really?" Sofia hugs the cushion to her chest. "I mean, you still have the whole…hemispheres thing to deal with."

Two hemispheres. Two oceans. Several hours. Thousands of miles.

You flop on your back with a sigh. You'd always been sceptical of long distance relationships, especially with that much distance. Courtney and Lando could try to be the exception all they wanted, it didn't mean that you had to. "Not if we just…don't make it that far."

If they're shocked, they only show it on their faces and you don't catch it. The silence carries the shock for them, since they don't say a thing. You don't blame them. What are you supposed to say to that?

"Well," Courtney starts, trying to lift the mood of the room. "Nothing wrong with a summer fling!"

The room fills with laughter; you pretend to find the humour in willingly drowning in the deep end of a summer fling.

Your routine doesn't change much at all even if everything between you and Oscar has. You still swim in the mornings, you still walk by the lake with Oscar, you find your study breaks in the same places, you hang out with Courtney and Sofia in the evening. Except your evenings most often end in Oscar's or with him in yours, not always spending the night but often cuddling until one of you—always you—started to doze off. It was a fine addition to your routine, besides the fact that he made sure you stuck to your swimming routine like the considerate asshole he is, always looking out for you. You choose to ignore how every moment with him has a ticking clock as its soundtrack.

Your call with Zoey is a stark reminder.

"This is a bad idea."

"It's not-"

"Y/N." She cuts you off with a harsh tone, full of tough love. "You like him. That's not going to just…disappear when he flies off south. It's going to hurt."

Though she's only pixels on a screen, you can't bear to look at her. "It's not that serious."

"Girl."

"It's not!" You fold your arms, still not looking at her. "It's just a bit of fun for the year."

"'A bit of fun' surely would have involved the sex."

"Does making out count?"

"Yeah. That's casual, that's fun, but the-" she inhales, taking a deep breath, and her exhale comes in the form of frustrated words. "The cuddling. The cuddling is practically asking to fall in love with him."

"I won't."

"How do you know you haven't already?"

You don't. But you're not going to tell her that.

"I'm not in love with Oscar," you state with your tone as determined and certain as you can make it. "And I won't be. We both agreed it's just…for fun. Just until we leave."

She sighs. "Is that what you want?"

You feel her glare, her judgement, but you don't meet her eyes. Again, you don't know what you want, you just know what you and Oscar agreed to; you know that you don't want to change the terms of whatever it is you two have. It's what you're supposed to want—a connection, only for the next four months. This what you're supposed to want.

So you say, "Yeah. It's what I want."

Zoey's eyes narrow as she examines your intentions, analysing every syllable and the way it was said. Eventually, she shrugs.

"Alright," she says, tone indicating that she was not expecting this to work out in your favour. "But don't get mad when I'm feeding you ice cream with some rom-com in the background and I say, 'I told you so.'"

You roll your eyes and laugh with her, pretending to find humour in how right she was.

The flames dwindle in autumn.

At first, you think it's just your anxiety. Exams are upcoming and final assignments are over the horizon and campus is full of a roster of new people. At first, nothing changes but the weather as it becomes colder, making it harder to will yourself out of bed to go swimming in the morning. Luckily you'd gotten yourself actual layers by then, but it was only going to get colder from here. As the new students—'freshers'—piled onto campus, occupying every study spot and making the swimming pool even busier, you found yourself envying them. There was excitement in their eyes, a light only sparked by new beginnings. You'd had the same light in your eyes in the spring, but the leaves were falling and a cold chill was coming in and your beginning was ending. The freshers had too many days ahead of them to count them; you were all too aware that January was only three—almost two—months away. Suddenly, everything changes, and you start to think that maybe you should just block out that ticking clock.

But it's everywhere. It's in the turning over of calendars and leaves, the changing colours of campus, the ducklings that had almost grown up to adults. You pull the sleeves of your too-thin sleeves as you stare at them, wondering where the time went, wondering when everything changed.

"You're gonna need another layer," Oscar says, his hand finding yours. "You're shivering."

You shrug, eyes still on the ducklings that were now ducks, trying very hard to stiffen your body. You fail, and your voice comes out shaky. "Haven't got any. Laundry day is tomorrow."

"You have the hoodie I gave you somewhere, right?"

Right. You did. It was folded neatly on a shelf in your wardrobe, separate from your own new layers, as if kept on a pedestal. You'd always been too embarrassed to actually wear it, even if he refused to take it back.

You shrug again. "Yeah."

Oscar leans forward to look at you; you don't turn to make it easier. At that point you figure he must know something is off with you, but he doesn't push, always looking out for you silently.

"Come on." Gently, he lets go of your hand and stands, but you don't look up. "There's still time before your lecture, we can go get it."

Your hands move to your lap, gripping the fabric of your shirt as you inhale deeply. The cold air hurts when you let it in, and you wonder if your lungs had already made the transition from air to water. You wonder how long it'll take to get used to going back to normal, back to shore, back home without Oscar just across the corridor.

His shadow shifts as he crouches in front of you, and you finally meet his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Just cold," you lie, making him tilt his head and raise his eyebrows. You raise yours too, a challenge, but he doesn't back down—he knows you're lying. Fine. You sigh and tell the truth. "And stupidly sad that the ducklings grew up."

"Ah." He turns to look at them briefly and a nostalgic smile crosses his face when he turns back. "Passage of time?"

"Yeah." They were just ducklings when you'd first sat here with him. Tiny little things grouping around their parents for safety, barely capable of holding their own, an now you didn't even know which ones were siblings. They'd grown up, some had left, and somehow you were still the same and didn't know how to move forward. "Passage of time."

He stands and he offers you his hand; you only take a moment before you take it, standing beside him. You squeeze it as you glance at the lake again, feeling like it was just yesterday when the trees were thick enough to cover the buildings. Now they had lost almost all of their leaves, revealing the truth of your little spot. It was still the same, but it was different now. And maybe you coped with change less well than you thought. You ignore the ticking clock. And the two hemispheres, the two oceans, the several hours, the thousands of miles.

With time, you ignore it as wisely as you'd ignore a medical concern, procrastinating the inevitable confrontation for as long as you can. It haunts you at night, ticking away whether you're alone or with Oscar, but you silence it as best you can and before you know it you're halfway through October and you don't even notice.

You start wearing Oscar's hoodie more often. It was a damn good hoodie, so comfortable you kind of felt bad for taking it. You figure that the least you can do is put it to good use, so it quickly becomes your main layer. It was just thick enough to shield you from the chill of English autumn, and comfortable enough to wear at home. Oscar doesn't mind, only smiles and teases when he points it out, rejecting your offers to share it. Every day, whether in his room or yours, you have a small discussion about the hoodie and it's the closest you ever get to a fight. Every time, it ends up staying in your care, but you weren't giving up as easily this time.

You sit at your desk and face him, the hoodie in your outstretched hand towards him on your bed. "I mean, it's just- it's yours. You could at least wear it sometimes."

"Ours." He corrects with a smug grin. He always did wear that smirk when you wore his hoodie, but you often ignored it.

"Fine. Ours." You roll your eyes and hand it to him, placing it next to him on your bed. "So wear it."

Oscar laughs as he takes it in his hands, clearly finding this whole situation absurd. "Okay, okay. We'll share custody."

"And if it's ours," you start, folding your arms. "I want to decorate it a little."

He catches your glance at your small sewing kit on your desk. "Sure."

"What, really?" You'd been joking. You'd been joking, really, but now you weren't.

The hoodie is in front of you on your desk as he nods, clearly not overly invested in what you plan to do with it. You grab a needle and some black thread, but you're not even sure what you want to sew on it.

"Who gets to keep it?" You ask, holding the thread in your hands. If you don't know what you're doing with it, you can't exactly measure how much you need. "After…you know…"

It's the first time you see him consider the end of this, the end of whatever you two are, and he just shakes his head, dismisses it just as you have. "We can decide when the time comes."

Silence falls between you two then and you ignore as the ticking clock makes its way back to the forefront of your mind. Instead, your eyebrows furrow as you consider what you could decorate this hoodie with using your very limited knowledge of sewing.

"You know," he suggests when he notices your struggling expression. "We could always put our names on it."

You raise an eyebrow. "I'm not that good with a needle and thread."

He shrugs. "Favourite numbers?"

"Huh." 13 and 81. Those weren't super difficult to sew on. "Not a bad plan."

It's clear as crystal then, exactly what you were going to do with this hoodie—you were going to brand it. Small, subtle, with symbols only you two knew meant represented the two of you. You grab its right sleeve and pull it inside-out, focusing on the cuff.

"I'm thinking of putting it here." You spin your chair to face him. "Small. But still there."

"Good placement, I think."

You nod, but something was still off. "Did you want to do yours? I don't mind teaching you."

He tilts his head with a pensive hum, hesitating for only a moment. "Sure. I think I can handle sewing two numbers. Where should I start?"

It turns out he knows about as much as you do—the basics of repairing holes on socks—so you don't teach him so much as you guide him. Once he's done, he admires his work with a proud smile. It's messy—he'd tried to make the eight circular and had landed on more of and octagonal shape, and the one was obviously not a straight line—but it's his, and it's wonderful, so you smile back.

"You didn't have to try to make the eight look circular, you know," You tease him with a nudge. "You could have used the style on the-…wait, the…oh my god. The clocks with screens."

"Your phone?"

"No, no, the- the alarm clocks with the massive numbers on them."

He chuckles. "Digital clocks?"

"Yes! That." You laugh as you turn towards your desk. "That's what I'm doing for the three."

He stands behind you as you start sewing, watching you work with his hands landing comfortably on your shoulders. Yours doesn't end up looking much better—again, the one isn't as a straight a line as it should be, and those right angles on the three always came out too acute or too obtuse, never perfect—but it's yours. A messily embroidered 81 next to an equally messy 13.

It occurs to you that you definitely do not want to keep this hoodie.

"Do you feel less bad wearing it now?" He asks, sitting back down on your bed. Originally, he'd been getting some reading done, but he had either finished it or ignored it in favour of listening to your hoodie rant.

"Yes." You put away your sewing stuff and sit next to him on the bed, setting the hoodie on his lap. "But only if you wear it, too."

He nods with a chuckle and puts it on right then, right before you two settle into your evening routine of cuddles you had to pretend weren't too intimate. You could still hear Zoey's voice claiming so, and you knew she was always right.

Once it's your turn with the hoodie, you regret your arrangement—you find that it smells exactly like him.

The end of October comes along with a vengeance, and you find yourself holed up in the library surrounded by various textbooks more often than not. Sometimes, Oscar is with you—as he tends to be—and one of you is wearing that damn white hoodie every time. Sometimes, your friends join you (though you truly do wonder whether Courtney and Lando get anything done) and Logan is such a rare sighting that you and Oscar keep a tally of when he shows up.

Eventually, you bring new people along.

First, you bring Ollie, a 'fresher' you met while helping out at an introductory event for your course, just as Lando had done for you but without the nice bonus of a paycheck at the end. Though you're not on his exact course, you're still able to offer some help with his own upcoming exams. You ignore the side glances Oscar keeps giving you two as you help him, knowing that you're both very well aware he's got no reason to be jealous.

Despite you knowing that, it still feels like revenge when he introduces you to Lily.

They'd met at the one Formula 1 society event you'd missed. Lily was a second year like you two, but she'd only just started going to the society this year. Like the very nice guy he was, Oscar had brought her along to your study sessions at the library, offering his and your company. Never in your life had you felt such an irrational dislike for someone who had been nothing but nice to you. Just as you're jealous of the freshers and their new beginnings, you're jealous of Lily's closeness to Oscar as if he's an item only one of you can have. You feel ridiculous as you try your best to avoid giving Oscar the same sideways glances he gave you and Ollie.

It's around here that you realise Zoey maybe did have a point after all.

You had no reason to be jealous. In fact, you'd noticed that Oscar had gotten slightly more clingy since meeting Lily, insisting you spend longer at the lake than you should or tagging along to study with you even at times when he usually didn't. Lily wasn't even that close to Oscar physically. You'd only seen them in the same room at the library and occasionally in your shared kitchen, but she was over often enough to serve as a fantastic plot device for your lore—the plot device that made you realise that you were, in fact, in love with Oscar, and you were actively sitting in a train on a collision course. But you don't move. You do as you did with the ticking clock—you procrastinate the confrontation for as long as you can. There's a part of you that wonders if Ollie made Oscar feel the same, part of you that remembers the side glances and re-frames how clingy he's become. Maybe Ollie had made him jealous, but you were certain Ollie had not served as a plot device in Oscar's life as Lily had in yours.

There's no shift in your dynamic when you accept you're in love with him. Maybe you really had loved him all along.

You had two months to get over it.

Halloween brings several parties and club nights; you attend none. Your group organises a picnic on campus with snacks and drinks, after which the group would separate and attend the other events around campus. You invite Ollie and Oscar invites Lily as if it's some sort of fair trade, and you hardly bother with a costume with so much else on your mind. Before you know it, it's the 31st and you're doing your best to get into the mood of the holiday just as Courtney and Sofia are. They had gladly adopted Lily and invited her over to get ready at yours. She wouldn't be sticking around for long—she had her own plans for the night—but she'd appreciated the place to get ready.

"Thank you so much for the invite," she'd said again as she borrowed your mirror, smiling brightly. "Really. I was worried I'd have to get ready alone."

"Aw, it's no problem!" It had been Sofia's doing, of course, as she'd been the one to steal Lily away from Oscar whenever she was in your shared kitchen.

Courtney stood up, basically ready. She'd had this planned for weeks. "Are you excited for your plans afterwards?"

"Oh, yes." Her eyes glanced at the ceiling dreamily and your heart did an annoying flip, bracing for what words would come next as if they could hurt you. "There's…well, this is kind of embarrassing, but a guy from my course I kind of like invited me to go with him. Like, just the two of us."

The room fills with squeals and you join in as best you can. You even manage words. "Girl, that's great! Would we know him?"

"I doubt it. But I promise he's lovely."

"If he isn't," Sofia said, pretending to glare threateningly. "We've got your back. Promise."

Lily giggles and thanks you guys again as your brain facepalms at your heart's earlier reaction. What had it thought? That she's say Oscar's name? That Oscar wouldn't have told you if he wanted to date Lily instead? You two weren't even dating, not officially, not really. And you wouldn't be whatever it was you two were in about two months.

There it was. Tick tock, like it always did.

You pick up on how your friends don't bring up Courtney and Lando, probably to avoid bringing up you and Oscar. You were too complicated to explain, and you certainly didn't have enough time to defend all the reasons why it was that complicated. There's a knock at you door and you guys head out as you continue to ignore the ticking as best as you can.

The group settles in a circle, partners and not really partners finding spots next to each other. Jealousy seems to be a theme this autumn—you find a twinge of it in your expression towards Courtney and Lando's interlaced hands, how she lies on his shoulder, how they can't keep off each other, how they'd even planned a couples costume. All you have to prove that the man next to you is a little yours is the fact that he's wearing the hoodie you'd spent the better part of last week wearing, under the excuse that it was perfect for the costume he'd been planning. You still hadn't figured out what it was.

"Wait, Oscar." Ollie leans forward from next to you to get a better look at him. "Isn't that hoodie Y/N's? She wears it at the library like, all the time."

The circle falls silent and you feel your cheeks burn. You shoot Oscar a look as he flinches, but his mouth was already open to respond without missing a beat.

"Technically, we share it." Oscar replies, brushing right over the flinch you're sure only you noticed. "She didn't bring enough layers for the year, so…"

"Oh, sure." Ollie grins and rolls his eyes. "You happened to sit next to each other, you happen to share a hoodie…and there's no romantic reasons for it."

You and Oscar exchange a glance, panic only you two see flashing across your eyes. It would take too long to explain, too many troops to defend whatever it was that you two had. Lying was much easier, so you clear your throat.

"He never said there weren't," you say in your best nonchalant tone, but you catch Courtney and Sofia's worried looks. "But that was the main reason. I was an idiot, needed a hoodie, and now we share it."

Ollie nods, satisfied, and that's when Lily cuts in. "I did think you two were dating! Why did you never mention it?"

Because we're not. At least not much longer.

Oscar shrugs. "I guess it never came up."

"Sure you weren't just keeping it secret?" Ollie teases again, blissfully unaware of the weight his words were putting on you two. "I mean, it's not going to be easy-"

"Alright!" Courtney pounces in before Ollie can bring up the distance, sitting up quickly. "Whose are those brownies, and could I please have one?"

You nod a thank you towards her and she smiles sympathetically, continuing to swiftly move the topic away from dating. The concern from the rest of the group slowly fades—and the topic doesn't come back up even as Lily and Ollie leave—but the lie hangs heavy between you and Oscar. Without really thinking about it, you reach for Oscar's hand and he doesn't move it away, he squeezes yours back. In the middle of this thing you had thrown yourself into, his hand was the only anchor.

Ironically enough, it was also the only thing pulling you further in.

You all head back together, Lando taking Courtney back to his and Sofia tagging along with Logan's group to some pres in a different accommodation block. Again, it's just you and Oscar, and you can fall back into your usual routine. Except you're not sure if you can. You definitely didn't want him to stay the night, and that was okay, but you usually spent the evening together and you definitely didn't want that either.

"Are you okay?" He asks as soon as you're alone, opening the door to his room. "I'm sorry, I didn't know what to say-"

"No, it's okay, I'm okay." You give him a faint smile and his eyebrows furrow; he doesn't believe you, so you insist. "Really. We should've had an answer ready. I think that one's…good enough."

"Yeah." He's still standing at his door, confused as to why you weren't following him in. "Uh…did you want to go to your room tonight instead?"

You nod, stepping away from him. "Just…by myself, though."

"Oh." There's something in his expression you can't decipher—it's closest to confusion, but there's a twinge of concern. "Okay. I guess I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah." You feel the explanation pushing its way up your throat like bile, so you quickly add, "It's just- this isn't going to last much longer."

Your words take a moment to sink in. Then his eyebrows furrow and his expression falls, his concern growing; you continue explaining with your eyes glued to the floor this time.

"I don't…I don't want to do this too often." It wasn't as if you had to sleep over, you didn't always, but even spending the evening with him seemed like too much. "To avoid getting attached to…something that only has two months left."

You look up just in time to see him frown at the reminder. Awkward silence falls between you for the first time since you'd met, filled with the weight of things unsaid, and you can't bring yourself to give them a voice.

"Right." He swallows back his own words and adverts his eyes, stepping back into his room. "Very…reasonable."

You hum in agreement, dragging your feet on the floor. Sensing the awkward silence creeping in again, you cut the interaction short with a wave. "I'll see you tomorrow."

You barely let him say it back before you open and close your door and bury your face in your pillow. A few moments go by before you hear his door click shut, as if he'd lingered for a while. You don't let yourself wonder why. You just take a deep breath, get up, and start to get changed.

It's not like you hadn't spent nights without each other. You certainly didn't spend every night with each other, but neither of you had ever rejected an invitation for that reason. To get attached less. As if you hadn't literally stitched yourself to him by now, both metaphorically and literally on that damn hoodie. Once you fall into bed you groan into your pillow, almost regretting not going to Oscar's if only because he could take your mind off things with his lips.

Take that, Zoey, you think, it really is just for fun now.

But you remember the flip your heart did at the idea of him dating someone else and realise you're terrible at lying even to yourself. You want to kiss Oscar because you love him. And you want to kiss Oscar so you can forget for how little time you can.

At 3am, you wake up as if it's the morning. You toss and turn, you flip your pillow, you even try swapping your head to the end of the bed, and nothing seems to work. You place your hands on your face and groan, kicking your legs as if throwing a whole tantrum. Sleep was needed—you couldn't stay up, not with the haunting of the ticking clock—and you were upset that your body wasn't cooperating. When you eventually settle with a deep breath, ready to try the same things again, you hear a knock at your door.

You bolt upright immediately, standing and glancing at the door with eyes narrowed in suspicion. At this time, it could've been anyone, and maybe they'd been unlucky and locked themselves out like you had. You're mentally preparing for the walk required until you open the door and your eyes widen.

Why would it be anyone other than Oscar?

"Hey," you say, ready to tease him before you catch his key dangling around his neck and your eyes narrow. "Wait. You're not locked out."

He shakes his head, offering no further explanation.

You blink. "So…what's up?"

"I couldn’t sleep." His tone is small, almost pitiful as if he's admitting defeat. "I…needed to talk to you. I just- I couldn't let you say all that and not…respond, I guess."

It seems that the things left unsaid were serving as an uncomfortable bump in both your mattresses.

"It's okay if you don't want to let me in," he continues. "I just need to let this off my chest."

"I…" You inhale, thinking back. You'd missed him, you'd wanted him to join you. "No, come in. It'll be more comfortable."

He follows you into your room with a small thank you, his whole body stiff in discomfort. He'd never pushed back like this, never really asked you for anything, and it was clear he wasn't used to it. You wonder what he's going to say, what kind of thing would make him this anxious. You don't like any of the choices your brain lands on.

Once he's sat on your bed, you beside him, he inhales. "I think we should use the time we have."

You close your eyes and inhale. His logic is sound and it aligns more with what you actually want, but you're supposed to want to detach yourself. To wean yourself off the addiction before it gets worse. To slowly make your lungs used to air again before all they know is water.

"Obviously it's okay if you want to spend nights alone," he says quickly as if to ensure that you're comfortable. "But not for that reason. We don't have to…kill this off before it dies."

But you do. You have to kill it off before it hurts. But you don't say that. Instead, you lean towards what you want.

"You're right," you say. "And I do want you to stay tonight, it's just…I can feel time slipping away every second."

"I feel that, too," he admits, shifting closer to you. "I guess, my logic is…"

You give a short laugh. "Time will pass anyway?"

Oscar nods. "Time will pass anyway."

The passage of time had taken enough away by now. It had turned new starts into endings, it had turned over new leaves, it had made ducklings grow into ducks. At the very least, you could let yourself have whatever it was you and Oscar had without constantly staring at the clock.

"I suppose…" you start with an inhale, finding yourself hesitating. "…we might as well watch the passage of time together."

"Are you sure?"

You nod. "Yes, I'm sure."

Then he looks you up and down as if you're hiding your refusal somewhere, but obviously he finds nothing. He offers and embrace and you take it with enough force to almost knock him over.

"Okay, okay," he chuckles, placing a hand on the back of your head. "But first, I have a question."

"Yeah?"

"Why the hell is your pillow in the wrong place?"

You laugh and shake your head. "It's not the 'wrong' place. It's different."

He pulls away to narrow his eyes at you, hands on your shoulders. "Wrong."

"Different."

"Maybe I should reconsider sleeping over."

You shrug. "You're not going to."

"You're right." He lifts his hand to put it on your on your cheek, stroking it with his thumb. Like it's instinct, you lean into the touch. "I'm not going to."

In the spirit of going along with what you want, you lean in until your forehead is resting against his. You catch his smile grow and you kiss him then, quickly and sweetly, testing exactly what the mood is. His eyes hold the same desire they did the night he first kissed you, and you entertain the idea of going that far. For the first time, you don't run into an immediate no.

Then, you yawn.

"Right," He says with a chuckle as he pulls away. "We're going to bed."

"But-"

"And you're going swimming tomorrow."

You pout. "I hate you."

"You do not," he scoffs with amusement.

"I do! Only someone I hate would make sure I stick to my commitments."

"Someone you love would look out for you like that," he corrects. "And you love me, really."

"Fine," You shrug in defeat. "I do."

It hangs between you like the strings you swore weren't attaching you two together. His eyes—no, his pupils—widen ever so slightly, and he opens his mouth to speak.

Suddenly, it occurs to you that you don't want to hear him say it back.

You quickly add, "But I also hate you."

He grins. The lopsided one. Whatever he was actually going to say, he swallows back. "I'll take that."

Without moving the pillow back to it's original—correct—place, you go under the covers and settle into the rest of your usual routine. You place an arm over his body with your head on his chest and he holds you to his side with an arm around you. The silence is comfortable, allowing your ears to catch the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat.

And there it was—the ticking clock.

It's soft, distant, like it's mourning the end of this as much as you two are. The clock isn't at fault for the passage of time, it merely ticks by to record it as it slips away. It brings you some peace to know that it doesn't want to take this away from you—it's just warning you. You've only got so much time left underwater.

"The universe is very cruel," Oscar mutters suddenly; you feel the hum of it in his chest and shift to look at him as he continues. "It's not fair that we'll be… So far away from each other."

You inhale, but then you laugh sharply, pretending to find humour in your situation. "I think it's even more cruel that it let us meet just to separate us."

Oscar doesn't disagree. You both stay on the track, on the collision course, underwater, and neither of you even suggest moving. You wonder if watching the time pass together would ever be enough to make the ending easier.

You convince yourself you'll be able to cut the strings when the time comes.

The morning after, you do indeed go swimming, and you're the only person you know—besides Oscar—that is up before midday. Your calendar reads 'November,' marks out all the exams and assignments due in the month, and it's stark reminder that two months will soon tick down to one. You inhale and ignore it as your phone vibrates. A message from Ollie.

Ollie: hey!! Ollie: i am SO SORRY about last night Ollie: i just realised how pushy i came off

A smile tugs at your lips. You hadn't been expecting an apology, but it was appreciated. You lounge back at your desk and type out a reply.

You: hey!! no worries You: we've just never had to explain it before and it was sudden You: that's why court cut you off when you almost brought up the distance lol

His reply doesn't take long to come through.

Ollie: oh!! Ollie: i'm sorry!! You: nws!!

Ollie was so apologetic; you almost feel bad. You play with the idea of telling him why you'd been so secretive, why the distance was a problem. Oscar had never told you that there were people you couldn't tell.

You: before you ask You: the plan is no plan lol Ollie: oh??

And it felt good to have someone else to tell. Someone that also wouldn't judge your decisions, someone that just gently warned you but let you stay underwater.

Someone that isn't your best friend, Zoey, who is always right and keeps reminding you of this every time you call.

"Am I seriously the only person telling you this is a bad idea?"

"Yeah." Zoey huffs in response. "Everyone else just gives me mildly concerned and judging looks."

"And they should. You're going too far with this."

You roll your eyes. "Are we going to talk about anything else?"

"No."

Your eyebrows raise in judgement as you sit up. That's when Zoey catches you red-handed.

"And that's his hoodie, isn't it?"

You freeze and slowly look down at your body. It had become so natural to wear this damn hoodie that you hadn't thought to change to avoid Zoey's very correct comments. With your eyes on the phone again, you nod in shame.

"Cute." Her lips form a thin line. "You sure you aren't in love yet?"

Your silence is admission enough.

You know it'll end by winter.

Halfway through December means you've survived your exams; it also means there are just weeks left now.

By this point, you've accepted your fate. You've accepted that it'll be so difficult to get your lungs used to air again that the process will definitely leave bruises and scars. You've accepted that this will end when you leave, and that there's nothing you can do to make it work across two oceans. Watching the time pass by wasn't enough. You've accepted your fate.

The air grows colder and shifts your routine. That damn lake, that precious spot, had frozen over, and it was often too cold outside to sit by it as you and Oscar used to do. Now, you go straight to where you need to go in the afternoon; you can no longer afford to linger. It's also too cold for swimming, so you stop doing that, too, meaning that you and Oscar's breakfast/lunch routine no longer line up. Just as you two had decided to take advantage of the time that you have, the universe decides to give you less of it. The water is freezing over and you're slowly making your way back to shore before you're stuck under the ice because the universe has given you no choice. Even the hoodie, which had been so perfect for the last few months, was no longer enough of a shield against the cold.

Despite this, you take advantage of no longer going swimming and stay up later, morning routines be damned. The number of events dwindle as people go home for Christmas, but you've still got some things to attend in the new year to serve as a transition for your next year of university. You're lucky none of them are in the morning, allowing you to stay up late with Oscar.

You don't do much talking.

Your lips are like magnets, meeting again and again as you savour the time you have left in the water. Hands start to wander under fabric until there isn't any fabric in their way at all. Again, you entertain the idea of going further and, again, you don't run into an immediate no. It's closer to a yes, actually, held back only by the very little amount of sand left in the hourglass.

Telling him about your little countdown wasn't something that ever crossed your mind. Why waste time on the intricacies and the details of it all? You had agreed to watch the time pass together, and that seemed to be enough for him so it had to be enough for you, too. Eventually, the countdown gets loud and, in that space between Christmas and New Year's where time hardly matters, you decide to admit that it wasn't enough, and that you were still counting down.

It proves difficult to, especially when your back is on his bed and he's on top of you, every breath you take shared with his on account of your lips hardly ever separating and tongues intertwining. That kind of makes it difficult to talk; you don't mind until the ticking gets even louder and you're desperate to get it out of your mind.

"I'm leaving in 18 days," you manage to mumble before he takes your lips in his again.

"Don't," he whispers into your mouth. "Don't remind me."

"And you leave in 13-"

He kisses you hard, pushing you into the mattress with the force. "Don't. Please."

"I can't help it." With a quiet sigh, he rests his head on your chest and, as if rehearsed, you run a hand through his hair. Your breaths are heavy and loaded just as his are; you wonder if it's more than a side effect of all the kissing. "All I've been doing for weeks is counting down."

His hand reaches for the one still at your side and squeezes it. "What can I do to make you stop counting?"

"I will always be counting. It's like there's a damn clock in my brain."

"Okay," Oscar sighs, heavy with defeat but not quite giving up yet. "What can I do to distract you from it, then?"

There was nothing he could do, you knew that, but most of you wanted him to try.

You inhale. "More than this."

He rests his chin on your chest to meet your eyes with his; their expression is the same as back at the club. You've not even entertained the idea of going that far before you've already said yes to yourself, and the resolve in your eyes makes his widen.

But he needs you to say it out loud. "Are you sure?"

You inhale to make sure it comes out as certain as you mean it. "Yes."

And with that lopsided grin on his face, his lips are back on yours, his hands wander under your shirt until it's discarded on the floor, and the ticking clock fades into the background like a muffled warning siren that you're choosing to ignore. That night, you give too much of yourself to someone you're sure you'll never see again and, somehow, you're okay with him keeping part of you forever.

Afterwards, when he's holding you close and you're halfway to sleep, the soundtrack of the ticking clock comes back to the forefront, a rude reminder that the water is getting dangerously cold. Again, you're counting. Oscar couldn't silence it forever.

Two hemispheres. Two oceans. Several hours. Thousands of miles.

"This isn't going to make it across two oceans," you mumble into his chest, looking down to avoid his eyes.

"I know," he replies into the top of your head, but he doesn't elaborate, instead holding you tighter as if that'll make your words any less true.

Neither of you ever make an effort to prove you wrong.

Your dates of departure are close enough that they loom over everyone now, not just you. The ticking clock had made itself known to all of you, and Courtney was taking it the hardest. Lando had gone home for Christmas, cutting their time short, and she was getting a taste of what their relationship would be like from January onwards and was finding that it was quite bitter.

"I want to do this, it's just-" she takes a shaky breath between you and Sofia, holding one of your cushions to her chest. "He's barely been gone a week. How am I gonna deal with months?"

Sofia squeezes her tightly. "You two will be just fine. It'll be hard, but you'll make a five hour difference look like nothing."

"I know, it's just-" she gasps. "You guys will be gone, too! Oh, January is gonna suck so much."

"At last we still have New Year's Eve!" Sofia replies, trying to shift the mood. "We're not there yet."

"You're right." Courtney tries to smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. At least she's trying. "We've got plenty of time before our only communication is through reels and memes."

"I will never stop texting you guys," you say with resolve, a part of you desperate to tug the conversation away from this long distance business. "You're going to get sick of me."

Courtney smiles faintly. "We could never. And we still need to meet Zoey in person."

"Oh, you will."

Suddenly, the air in the room changes. Sofia shifts on your bed and Courtney turns her body to face you fully. You get the sense that this is an intervention, and you want to tug the conversation away again.

"So- um…" Sofia clears her throat. "You and Oscar-"

"Still ending what we have when we leave, yeah."

Their expressions don't believe you, and neither do they. All that matters is that you do.

Courtney clears her throat. "You know you don't have to. You can-"

"Yeah," you interrupt, desperately tugging the conversation in any other direction still. "But it's what we want."

It's final, a truth you will convince yourself of, and they don't press any further.

The number of days you have left in England ticks down to 13 as New Year's Eve comes along, and the number of times you and Oscar give too much of yourselves to each other is too high for something that has such an imminent expiry date. There's a screening of the London fireworks show on the outdoor screen on campus, so you agree to attend together. You wake up in Oscar's room and it's just you in bed—he's up and on the phone with a bright smile on his face.

"Yes, I'll call you guys in a few hours. Yeah. Oh, yeah, I'll send the details over. I can't wait to be back either. I love you too, bye."

You've sat up by the time he's turned to face you. "Family?"

"Yeah." Oscar sits next to you. "New year over there is at 1pm, so I'll call them again."

"Oh." You can't help your wince. "I always forget how big the difference is."

"Yeah. 11 hours."

Two hemispheres. Two oceans. Several hours. Thousands of miles.

Just as you did with the girls, he tugs the conversation away from the distance. "Lando texted me."

"Oh?"

"He needs our help sneaking in to surprise Courtney."

A noise leaves your lips, something between pleasantly surprised and downright shocked. "He's- coming back?"

Oscar nods. "He'll just need us to tell him where Courtney is so he can avoid her."

"Shouldn't be too difficult," you say with a shrug, your tone harsh. "She's just been sulking in her room most days. Missing him."

His eyes narrow and he tilts his head. "You're saying that like it's an irrational response."

"It kind of is, to me. I just don't understand why they're putting themselves through this."

"Because they're in love."

You hate that he says it like it's easy. Like it's the answer and the key when it's just a chemical reaction. So, you scoff and speak bitterly.

"That's not enough to get across the Atlantic."

The emotion in his eyes is beyond judgement—it's pity. Oscar feels sorry for you and your perceived weakness of love. "So- what, you're just gonna cut them off when you go back?"

"Of course not, but-" you huff and stumble over your words, unsure of where your anger is bubbling up from. "That's- different."

"Is it?"

You roll your eyes and take a deep breath. Though you recognise that he's right, you haven't got the capacity to admit that to him out loud, so you stand up and walk towards the door, hoping you're not leaving anything behind.

"I'll let you know where Courtney is," you say as you open the door. The sound of it makes him almost leap from his spot towards you. "Let me know if you need me to keep her here-"

He gently grabs your wrist. "Wait."

"Oscar-"

"Are you okay?"

"Yes." You lie too quickly. "Probably tired, or something. I'm sorry."

There's no reason for him to believe you, but he nods and pretends you're telling the truth. "That's…it's okay. I'll see you tonight?"

You give him the most genuine smile you can. "I'll see you tonight."

And he gives you a peck on the lips before you turn. You do goodbye kisses, remember?

Courtney spends the day with you and Sofia, pretending not to sulk, and you make sure she doesn't see the updates from Oscar about where Lando is and where she shouldn't be. The sun sets by the mid-afternoon and it truly dawns on you that your year abroad is over, and you are so incredibly angry. You don't get it. You don't understand why they're doing this to themselves, don't understand how Oscar can think that love is enough to overcome the distance, don't understand how he can compare what they have to your friendships. Friendships are different, lower pressure, easier to maintain in your eyes. You view platonic love as having a stronger foundation than romantic love, less passionate but solid and sustainable. Romantic love may be more passionate but it walks a tightrope the whole time, and it stood no chance at crossing thousands of miles.

That evening, when Courtney finds Lando in the crowd and her eyes light up like fireworks, you start to understand.

She squeals so loud it makes you jump, and by the time you think to turn towards her she's already sprinted past you, stumbling into Lando's arms like she was meant to fall there all along. Then he's spinning her around in the air as if his strength comes from her presence, both of them giggling like they hadn't just spent the last week longing for each other. You suppose that this is the point. The reunion, the resolution to the longing, the embrace as the distance finally becomes mere inches.

Oscar's looking at you from across the crowd, from where Lando used to be standing before Courtney changed his course. His expression is satisfied when your eyes meet his; he can tell you're starting to get it and that makes your eyes narrow. Slowly and carefully, as if your glance could kill, he makes his way towards you and takes his place beside you.

"They're in love," he says gently as if that will soften the blow. "I personally think it can cross the Atlantic."

"Good for you," you reply bitterly, folding your arms, but then you sigh. You give up immediately. "And…fine. Good for them."

It doesn't mean anything for the two of you.

His smile turns smug as his hand slips into yours. It stays there as midnight ticks closer, the only time in which all of humanity seems to celebrate a clock ticking away. At 11pm, you call home and do your best to pretend that you're happy you're going back. Part of you is. Part of you misses your family and your friends and the weather and, oh my god, the food, but then your hand slips back into Oscar's and you seriously wonder if you could put up with gloomy England just to stay with him. Except he's not from England. He's from Australia, and he'll be back there in eight days.

Two hemispheres. Two oceans. Several hours. Thousands of miles.

He's not staying and neither are you.

There's only a few minutes left until midnight when Oscar asks, "So you're excited to go back?"

"Yeah," you reply as earnestly as you can, though the way you squeeze his hand betrays you. "It feels like it's about time, you know? To go back to normal."

He hums and squeezes your hand in return. "Back to normal."

Life without him hadn't been bad. You'd done it for two decades. Surely, eventually, you could learn to go back to normal. The end of this calendar year marks the end of this adventure, and now it was time go home. To go back to normal.

The crowd starts chanting when it's ten seconds to midnight and Oscar gives you a loaded look. You raise an eyebrow at him and his expression insists, the distance between you two getting smaller as you gravitate closer. What's coming is inevitable and you're okay with being helpless to stop it. He gives you a lopsided grin and you think, fuck it.

What's one more cold plunge in the deep end?

When the clock finally strikes midnight and the crowd erupts into cheers, you're already kissing him with a finality that scares you. His arms pull you closer from around your waist and your heart swells, flies up into the sky like a firework with the rest of them, but it's just as fleeting as the display on the screen. It's the spark, the flight up, the explosion, and the sudden end, and you're at that last stage now. You're reaching the shore, and it's time to go home. Back to normal.

When you pull away, despite your smile, you find yourself resolved to never kiss him again.

"Happy new year," he whispers as he pulls you in for a hug. From there, you can see Courtney and Lando are still kissing. You sigh.

"Happy new year." It's less earnest than you mean for it to be, but you hope hugging him tighter will make up for it.

He keeps his arms around your waist when you pull away to look at the fireworks. Your eyes end up on his instead, and you take in a sharp breath at the emotion in his eyes. Whatever is behind them is heavy with words unsaid and you find that you really, really, don't want him to give them a voice.

"Hey," he inhales, rubbing his thumb along your back like he's nervous, and you know that the last time he'd admitted he was nervous was what got you into this mess. "I-"

"I- I should really go find the others," you chuckle awkwardly, desperately, as you untangle yourself from him. "I'll see you later?"

You hate the way his face sinks. Whatever words were unsaid fall right back to what you're sure is now a pit in his stomach that you have to live with causing. "…Yeah. I'll see you later."

Oscar turns away from you before you step back, as if he's avoiding your gaze. You ignore that it hurts you slightly; you deserved that.

You reconvene as a group and hang out until past 1am, still avoiding finding yourself alone with Oscar. Far earlier than the rest, you head back to your room, hoping that Oscar doesn't knock or text or do anything that expresses desire to continue your usual routine.

Bizarrely, you're disappointed when he never does.

That morning, you turn your calendar to January and the date of your return hits you like a slap across the face. You'd been so excited when you'd first filled it in—the several exclamation marks indicated as such—but now that feeling mocked you. In two weeks, you were leaving. In one week—just seven days—Oscar was taking part of you with him.

Those few days are a blur. You do spend every night with him, including the last, but he never even tries to say what he'd almost said on New Year's Eve again, and you're thankful. It makes easier to pretend that he'd never meant to try to say it, that he was just drunk on the one drink he'd had, anything but that he could possibly mean those words. Anything but that. On your part, you stick to your resolve of not kissing him again, and he barely reacts to the space between you as if he's numb to your rejections at this point; you've become numb to rejecting him. On the last few days, you insist on staying in your room—his looks too depressing with everything packed up and put away, as if he'd never been there in the first place. Back to normal.

When the dreaded day comes, you say goodbye at the bus stop. You could get on the bus with him to the train station, you could take the train with him to airport, but it didn't make a difference. Whether you said goodbye here or at the train station or at the airport, he was still leaving you today and you saw no point in dragging the string on any further. He is leaving you today. Nothing is changing that.

It doesn't hit either of you until his bus is there, waiting to take him away. Oscar holds you tighter than he ever has, disregarding his suitcase entirely, and you hold him back like it's the last time you'll ever see him because you're convinced that's the truth. You don't kiss though your lips are still magnets and it takes all of your strength to keep them apart. But it was over—you must keep your head above the water. Then he inhales, deep and sharp as if bracing for something. You imagine that the look in his eyes is, again, heavy with things unsaid, but you're too numb to interrupt him. You let him say whatever it is that's been weighing so heavily on his mind.

"I love you."

It would have all been easier had he never said it out loud.

All you can do scoff, but you hold him tighter anyway.

"That's mean," you manage to say, voice breaking. Any other reply drowns in the knot in your throat. You don't say it back. You can't say it back, or you'll mean it. "That's really mean."

Oscar sighs as he lets go of you; you're sure you imagine the tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

With a small wave and a thin-lipped, polite smile—as if he was just an acquaintance—you turn and walk away without even watching him get on the bus. Oscar doesn't run after you and you never turn back. The only thing that satisfies you is that, at the very least, you walked away first.

You wince when the bus drives past you and avoid looking in, afraid of meeting his eyes. With that, the band-aid that had stuck to your brain by him looking out for you is ripped off, painfully, and one reminder is replaced with another.

At least the ticking clock has finally stopped.

Oscar texts you when he lands, short and polite. You reply that you're glad he's safe and wish him luck regarding the upcoming release of grades you'd both forgotten about. That is the extent of your text conversation, and you don't try to revive it.

The next week feels like years. You get very good at packing clothes and feelings into small spaces, determined to take everything back with you. Before you know it, suitcases are packed, feelings are compartmentalised and dealt with by ignoring them, and your friends are leaving you, too. Sofia leaves first, then Courtney. You cry in their arms both times, making earnest promises to see each other when you get a chance, to call as often as possible, to keep each other updated. It doesn't feel like an ending, and you're glad about that even when your jealousy creeps up as Courtney and Lando head off together. He's taking her all the way to the airport, making use of the time they have left. Justifying why you didn't go with Oscar becomes harder after that.

You don't remember anything about the days between then and your own flight. You barely remember the faint smile on your lips when your grades come in, or your brief text conversation with Oscar about them. You just remember packing, burying, longing, and repeat, until you're finally ready to fly back home and your room looks as it did when you found it, back to normal. No tears are shed; you're very good at holding them back, even when you walk out of your room and stare at the 018 on the door across the corridor as if it's an insult.

As you pack, you find the hoodie.

It should feel like a punch in the gut, but you just sigh in disappointment. What you feel is almost pity—the hoodie must feel abandoned, having been left behind by its original owner. You text Oscar to ask what you should do with it, and what he says in response burns itself into your mind.

Oscar: It's technically ours Oscar: Keep it

Ours.

You feel you should burn the hoodie instead; you wonder if that will hurt you more than letting it haunt you. That is how it ends up in the back of your closet for a year, ready to force you to remember when you least expect it. You cry on the flight, more than happy to let the flight attendant believe that it's because of the turbulence. You cry when you land and hug your parents, more than happy to let them believe it was because you were so delighted to be back. Everyone gets a text when you land, even Oscar, but you stop texting him sooner than you stop texting even Ollie. Your conversations are short, strained, forced, and neither of you do anything to fix it. You force yourself to be okay with that.

Zoey comes over and doesn't let you go, jumping up and down with you in the embrace. There's not much to catch up on given that you were in contact as often as you could be, but she still essentially stays over for a sleepover with movies and gossip. Going back to normal feels easy, possible, especially back in your childhood bedroom with your childhood best friend.

But eventually, briefly, Oscar comes up. Your answers are just as brief.

"So…you ended it?" Zoey asks between handfuls of popcorn. "He's fully gone, took his hoodie back…just like that?"

You swallow. "Yes. We ended it."

Her eyes narrow, questioning your answer, but she doesn't push. "Okay. But if it hits you suddenly…I'm here. No judgement."

Though you believe her, you never take her up on that offer; you never speak Oscar's name again.

You really were a fool to think that you'd ever forgotten last year.

The hoodie had dragged you right back underwater, everything flooding back to you with such force that you don't even notice the tears forming in your eyes. Had you even cried about him? No, not really. You'd buried yourself into your last year of university and buried whatever you two had deep underground, never to be processed.

How healthy of you.

You'd only texted on birthdays, liked posts, you'd done the bare minimum that two acquaintances would do, ignoring the fact that you could hardly watch Formula 1 without thinking of what Oscar would say. And the fact that you suddenly liked swimming a little less, just like how pancakes weren't as good anymore. You swore it meant nothing and quickly pretended you'd forgotten him.

But you hadn't, and it was hitting like a gut punch that had been winding up for the whole year, waiting for its opportunity.

A different set of footsteps run towards your room, more urgent this time, and you do sit up for those. It's Zoey, hair half unbraided and eyes wide.

"That's Oscar's, isn't it." She doesn't ask. She just says it.

You want to say it's not. You want to say 'actually, it's ours.' Instead, everything you say catches on the knot in your throat.

Instead, you cry.

You let out all the tears you'd been holding in for the last year in Zoey's arms, sobbing as if you were grieving. Never in your life had you felt more stupid, more hopeless, because how had you gone and entire year without noticing any of this? You were—are—in love with Oscar. You're in love with him, and you're in love with him, and you never stopped being in love with him, and falling for someone eventually has you hit solid ground. Usually, someone is there to catch you.

But it was too late to call out to anyone, so now you're a pile of broken bones on concrete.

"You told me you hadn't kept it," Zoey whispers while she strokes your head to comfort you. "You're-"

"An idiot," you sob angrily. "I know-"

"No," she sighs. "You were just in love."

You don't have the heart to correct her past tense.

Zoey's prophecy comes true—you're on your bed with your packing neglected eating ice cream straight out of the tub with a steady stream of tears running down your face, the hoodie serving as a plush in your arms. You're at least calming down now, letting our small and pitiful laughs at the bad jokes in the rom-coms as your tears dry. Though you still feel like a pile of broken of bones, you're at least being treated now. You're smiling and ignoring the fact that you'll need a more permanent solution.

It's around halfway through the second film that Zoey straightens up beside you. "Is it too soon?"

You tilt your head. "For what?"

"To, um…" she poorly stifles a snort. "To say I told you so."

You let out a gasp, pretending to be hurt, and nudge her hard. Even that doesn't stop her breaking into laughter.

"Come on! I did say I would."

"You did, you did," you giggle. "but…ouch."

She giggles, too, but eventually falls back into serious, problem solving mode. "So…you're gonna text him, right?"

"I can't."

"You need to talk-"

"No, Zoey-" you sigh and hug yourself, tears pricking at your eyes again. "It's too late."

"But what if it isn't?"

"Zoey-"

"I'm being serious, Y/N." She grabs your hand and you turn away, unable to meet her eyes when they hold such care in them. "You clearly care a lot about this guy. The least you can do for yourself is give yourself the closure of knowing whether he still cares for you."

You wipe your face before you turn back to face her sympathy. Though the idea of texting him without an excuse like a birthday or a holiday makes you want to throw up, you take a deep breath and nod as Zoey continues.

"You're gonna text him." She grabs your shoulders, her eyes gentle. "You're going to ask him if he wants his hoodie back, you're going to talk, and see how to move forward."

You open your mouth to say something—not even to protest, just to speak—but Zoey's glare shuts your mouth up again. With a satisfied nod, she hands you your phone.

"Text him. Come on. At the very least so that you don't have to keep that hoodie."

You know that Zoey's always right, so you text him, ignoring that your last message had been a short exchange of 'happy new year's.'

You: hey! sorry, I know it's a been a while. I'm packing to go back home and I came across your hoodie again. I know you said I could keep it, but I feel bad. Is there any way I can send it back to you?

Your breath catches when he reads it immediately.

Thank you guys SO much for reading, I know it was long. Sorry (kinda) for the cliffhanger!! Part 2 coming SOON I promise. Any and all interactions (reblogs + comments especially!!) are appreciated!!

PART TWO - Come Back (To What You Need)

MASTERLIST, OC MASTERLIST

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