By the third week of the semester, Clara and I were unofficially sitting partners. No discussion, no agreement. We just showed up and found each other. If I got there first, I'd keep the seat beside me empty. If she got there first, she'd do the same.
It didn't feel like anything at the time. Just routine.
We started studying together because it made sense. We had the same schedule, the same coursework, the same deadlines. And Clara was sharp—sharper than me, honestly. When the lecturer moved too fast, she caught what I missed. And when the questions got tricky, I could usually break them down better. We balanced each other.
One Thursday afternoon, after our second quiz, she nudged me with her elbow.
"You free later? I want to go over today's stuff before it disappears from my brain."
I shrugged. "Yeah, I was going to review anyway."
"Cool. Library? Five?"
And that was it.
We met at the library that evening and stayed for almost three hours. We didn't talk much at first—just opened our laptops and took notes. But as the hours passed, we started laughing at some of the ridiculous examples the lecturer gave. Then we argued over whether the assignment question was poorly worded or we were just overthinking it.
By the end, we were talking like we'd known each other longer than we had.
It kept happening after that. Study sessions turned into a routine—library, empty lecture halls, the science courtyard when it wasn't too hot. Sometimes we'd buy snacks, sometimes we'd walk back to the hostel together. Always with a buffer of "we're just studying" between us.
But the truth was, I had started noticing more.
Like how Clara never wore earphones while studying—said it distracted her brain. How she always ordered the same thing at the canteen: plain rice, fried plantain, no stew. How she got super quiet when she was frustrated with an equation, then whispered the answer like she was double-checking her own thoughts.
I never told her I noticed. I don't think she noticed that I noticed. Or maybe she did. I'm still not sure.
One night, after we finished revising for a quiz, we were walking out of the library. The campus was quiet, and the lights along the walkway made the shadows stretch long across the pavement.
"You think we'll survive this course?" she asked, half-smiling.
"Barely," I said. "But if I fail, I'm dragging you down with me."
She laughed. "Deal."
And just like that, it felt like we had signed some kind of unspoken contract. Not about love. Not yet. But about being in this together—whatever "this" was.
I didn't know then how blurry things would get.
How hard it would be to separate us from the course… From the grades. From the goals.
I had already fallen—heart first—even if I couldn't yet define what it was.