The first time I noticed how natural that felt, my chest tightened in a way that scared me.
Because attachment had always been dangerous.
And yet.
One night, we were half-dead from studying. The room was dim except for the glow of the TV menu screen. A faint breeze pushed through the cracked window, carrying the clean, sharp scent of detergent from downstairs.
I stared at the ceiling for a long moment, my thoughts circling something I couldn’t quite name.
Then I said, quietly, “We’re kind of already together, aren’t we?”
Noah didn’t even look away from the screen at first. He just let out a small breath—almost a laugh, almost relief.
“Oh, good,” he said. “Thought that was just me.”
That was our big moment.
No grand confession.
Just the truth, finally spoken out loud.
We started saying boyfriend and girlfriend because that’s what people did, because labels helped the outside world understand.
But everything that mattered between us had already been there for years.
We finished our degrees one brutal semester at a time.
When our diplomas arrived in the mail, we didn’t open them delicately. We tore the envelopes like we were afraid the paper might vanish if we didn’t grab it fast enough.
We propped them on the kitchen counter and stared like they were proof of something impossible.
Noah leaned back in his chair and laughed softly, shaking his head.
“Look at us,” he said. “Two orphans with paperwork.”
The words made me laugh and ache at the same time.
A year later, Noah proposed.
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