I saw him again the next morning.
I hadn't planned to.
I woke up early, hoping to avoid people, memories—him. Jess was still asleep, curled into her blanket, breathing softly. I slipped out quietly, grabbing my notebook and heading for the campus café, telling myself that if I stayed busy, my heart wouldn't have time to ache.
That was a lie.
The café was warm and smelled like coffee and cinnamon. It felt safe. I stood in line, staring at the menu without really seeing it, repeating the same order in my head.
Large latte. Extra foam.
"Aria?"
My spine went rigid.
That voice.
I turned slowly, every nerve in my body screaming.
Liam stood behind me.
Too close.
Close enough that I could see the faint scar near his eyebrow—the one he got the night he broke his arm protecting me from a drunk driver. Close enough to notice the tired shadows under his eyes. Close enough to smell the same cologne he used to wear.
He looked like someone who hadn't slept much either.
"Don't," I said quietly, cutting him off before he could say anything else.
His jaw tightened. "Can we talk?"
"No."
The word came out sharper than I intended, but I didn't take it back.
The girl at the counter cleared her throat awkwardly. "Next?"
I ordered quickly, paid, and moved to the side, my heart racing. I told myself he wouldn't follow me.
He did.
"Aria," he said again, softer now. "Please."
I laughed once—short, humorless. "You don't get to say my name like that."
He flinched.
Good.
We stood there in silence, surrounded by the low hum of conversation and clinking cups. To anyone else, we probably looked like two strangers caught in an awkward moment.
But we weren't strangers.
We were ruins.
"I just want five minutes," he said. "That's all."
I looked at him then—really looked. His eyes weren't cold like yesterday. They were guarded. Careful. Like he was afraid I'd shatter if he touched me.
"You had two years," I said. "You don't get five minutes now."
I took my coffee and walked past him.
This time, he didn't stop me.
My first lecture was a blur.
I sat in the back, notebook open, pen unmoving. Words floated past me without meaning. Every time the door opened, my heart jumped, stupid and traitorous.
Get it together, I told myself.
He doesn't matter.
I was almost starting to believe it when the professor said, "You'll be working in pairs for the semester project. I'll assign them."
No.
I felt it before it happened—like the universe inhaling.
"Aria Cole," the professor said, glancing at his list. "You'll be with… Liam Hale."
The room tilted.
A few students murmured. Someone behind me whispered, "Oh damn."
I stared straight ahead, my grip tightening on my pen.
Liam didn't look at me.
Of course he didn't.
"You'll submit your proposal by next week," the professor continued. "You're free to discuss now."
Chairs scraped. People turned. Conversations started.
I stood up so fast my chair nearly fell over.
"I'll email you," I said flatly, not meeting his eyes.
"That won't work," he replied calmly. "We need to talk."
I laughed again, disbelief bubbling up. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?"
His gaze finally met mine, and something dark flickered there.
"This isn't about us," he said. "It's a grade."
"No," I said quietly. "It's about boundaries."
I walked out.
I didn't get far.
He caught up to me outside the building, grabbing my wrist—not hard, but enough to stop me. The contact sent a jolt through me, memories crashing in uninvited.
I pulled away immediately.
"Don't touch me," I said.
He stepped back at once, hands raised slightly. "Okay. I'm sorry."
We stood there, the space between us heavy with everything we weren't saying.
"I didn't plan this," he said. "I didn't even know you were coming here."
"Liar," I snapped. "You always know more than you say."
His mouth opened, then closed. His eyes darkened.
"You're right," he said finally. "I don't tell you things."
The honesty surprised me.
"But I never stopped caring," he added.
Something inside me cracked.
I shook my head. "Caring isn't enough. It never was."
He looked like he wanted to argue. Like he wanted to explain. But instead, he said, "We can keep it professional."
I crossed my arms. "Good. Because I don't want anything else."
A pause.
"Meet me at the library tonight," he said. "Six. For the project."
I hesitated.
Then nodded. "Fine."
As I walked away, my chest felt tight again—but not from pain alone.
From fear.
The library was quiet, dimly lit, filled with the soft rustle of pages and distant footsteps. I arrived five minutes late on purpose.
Liam was already there.
Of course he was.
He sat at a corner table, laptop open, sleeves rolled up. He looked up when he saw me, his expression unreadable.
I sat across from him, placing my bag down carefully, like any sudden movement might break something fragile.
"Let's get this over with," I said.
He nodded. "Okay."
For a while, we worked in silence. It was strange—familiar. Like slipping into an old rhythm neither of us had forgotten.
"You still tap your pen when you're thinking," he said suddenly.
I froze.
"You still notice things you shouldn't," I replied.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips before he caught himself.
"Aria," he said softly. "I—"
"Don't," I interrupted. "If you're going to explain, don't do it halfway. And if you're not… don't start."
He studied me for a long moment, like he was memorizing my face all over again.
"I'm not ready," he said.
"That's your problem," I replied. "It won't be mine anymore."
I stood up, packing my things.
As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me.
"You loved me once," he said quietly. "I know you did."
I didn't turn around.
"Yes," I said. "And I survived it."
I walked away, heart pounding.
But deep down, a terrifying thought whispered through me.
What if I didn't survive it at all?