By the time mid-semester arrived, routines had settled into place.
Classes no longer felt tentative. Lecture halls became predictable—certain seats unofficially claimed, certain faces always present. The campus stopped feeling like a place we were borrowing time from and began to feel, quietly, like somewhere we belonged.
And somewhere inside that adjustment, she became part of my days again.
Not in a sudden way.
Not in a way that demanded recognition.
Just steadily.
We started expecting each other without saying so.
If a class ended early, I'd find myself slowing my steps, already checking my phone, even before deciding whether to message her. Sometimes she'd already be there, leaning against a railing, scrolling absently, as if she'd been waiting without admitting it.
"You're early," she'd say.
"So are you."
We walked together more often now.
Not always the full way. Sometimes just between buildings. Sometimes only until one of us turned off toward another lecture hall. But the distance we covered together grew longer, and the time between those moments began to feel heavier.
We studied together more seriously too.
At first, it was practical—shared notes, mutual confusion, the quiet reassurance of not being alone in not understanding something. But soon, the studying itself became secondary. We lingered after finishing chapters, conversations drifting away from coursework without either of us stopping it.
One afternoon in the library, she closed her notebook and leaned back.
"I don't remember the last time I studied this much," she said.
"You say that every week."
"And every week it's true."
I smiled, then caught myself watching her instead of the page in front of me.
She noticed.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing."
She didn't look convinced. "You've been doing that a lot lately."
"Doing what?"
"Drifting," she said. "Like you're halfway somewhere else."
I looked down at my notes, then back up at her. "Maybe I am."
She didn't ask where.
That evening, as we walked past the station, she slowed her pace until our steps matched.
"I like this," she said suddenly.
"This?"
"Walking without rushing," she said. "Not having to decide where we're going yet."
"Me too."
She glanced at me, then away again, as if checking whether the words were safe.
It became normal to sit somewhere after classes.
The café.
The steps near the humanities building.
Once, the grass, even though neither of us brought anything to sit on.
We talked about small things—professors who spoke too fast, assignments that felt unnecessary, people we were slowly getting to know. Sometimes we talked about nothing at all.
And sometimes, without planning it, our conversations edged closer to things we didn't quite name.
"Do you ever feel like this year is going faster than it should?" she asked one evening.
"Only when I'm not paying attention."
"And when you are?"
"It slows down," I said. "Too much."
She smiled faintly. "That sounds inconvenient."
"It is."
She laughed, then went quiet.
I noticed how often silence returned now.
Not the uncertain kind from before.
The old kind.
The kind that didn't ask to be filled.
One night, after a long day of classes, we took the train partway together.
The carriage wasn't crowded. Seats were available, but we stood near the door instead, shoulders close enough to notice warmth through fabric. The train rocked gently, the city outside sliding past in blurred light.
She yawned and leaned her head briefly against the pole.
"Tired?" I asked.
"Always," she said. "But in a good way."
I watched her reflection in the window—how her eyes softened when she wasn't thinking about anything in particular.
Without really deciding to, I reached out and adjusted the strap of her bag where it had slipped.
She froze for half a second.
Then relaxed.
Neither of us said anything.
After that, the distance between us felt different.
Not gone.
But altered.
We didn't talk about it.
We didn't talk about a lot of things.
But our actions began to speak more clearly than words ever had.
She waited for me after her classes more often.
I adjusted my schedule when I could.
We remembered small details about each other again.
One afternoon, while sitting outside with our backs against the building, she pulled out her sketchbook.
It surprised me.
"I thought you stopped bringing that," I said.
"I stopped showing it," she replied.
She opened it slowly, flipping through pages I hadn't seen before. Landscapes. Corners of campus. A staircase I recognized. A vending machine we passed every day.
Then she stopped.
She didn't turn the page further.
"You don't have to—" I started.
"It's fine," she said, though her voice wasn't entirely steady.
I leaned closer, careful not to crowd her.
The drawing wasn't finished.
It didn't need to be.
I recognized the posture before I recognized myself.
"You still say the same thing," I said quietly.
She smiled, small and nervous. "Some habits are hard to break."
I didn't comment further.
I didn't need to.
That night, I lay awake longer than usual.
Not because I was restless.
Because I was aware.
Of how easily this closeness had returned.
Of how naturally it had grown into something heavier.
Of how neither of us had asked the question that hovered just beneath the surface.
What are we doing?
The truth was, I didn't want to ask.
As long as we didn't define it, it could remain untouched by expectation. As long as it stayed unnamed, it couldn't disappoint us.
But comfort has a way of asking for more.
And one evening, as we sat side by side watching the sky darken over the campus, she spoke softly, without looking at me.
"You know," she said, "if we keep doing this…"
I waited.
"…someone's going to notice."
I glanced at her. "Does that bother you?"
She considered it.
"No," she said. "What bothers me is pretending it's nothing."
The silence that followed felt different from all the others.
Heavier.
But honest.
I didn't answer right away.
Because for the first time since we'd met again, the question wasn't whether we were close.
It was whether we were ready to admit that closeness had already become something else.
And whether, once we did, there would be any way back to the ease we'd just begun to rely on.