The sketch was almost finished—soft graphite strokes forming the curve of his jaw, the way his hair never quite sat still, that calm look in his eyes that always made her feel like time had slowed around him.
Amelia caught it before I could shut my notebook.
"You're drawing him again," she said, not even trying to hide the grin.
"It's just practice," I replied, too fast maybe.
Amelia raised an eyebrow. "You've drawn the same boy's face seven times in three days."
"It's still practice."
There was a pause. Not teasing now. Just gentle.
"You sketch the people you're scared to forget, don't you?"
I looked away.
Later that evening, the air shifted. The kind of shift that made your skin prickle. The wind picked up, cool and steady, like it knew something was coming but wasn't in a hurry to warn you.
I left the dorm without saying anything. I didn't need a reason. Just space.
The streets were quieter than usual. Streetlights flickered on automatically as the sky darkened—not fully night, just storm-colored and strange.
I walked.
Hands in my pockets.
Breathe syncing with the wind.
And then, somehow—of course—he was there.
Ethan.
Leaning against the railing that overlooked the field near campus. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. Hair messily windblown. Like he belonged to this kind of weather.
He noticed me, smiled softly. "Didn't think I'd see anyone else out here."
I stopped a few feet away, half-shrugged. "Needed air."
He nodded. Said nothing more. Just fell into step beside me as I kept walking.
No questions. No pressure.
Just presence.
The wind turned colder. Clouds thicker. The first raindrop hit the sidewalk with a tiny, audible tap.
I flinched.
Ethan noticed.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I hate rain," I muttered. "Not this part—just... the part that comes after."
He tilted his head. "Why?"
I thought for a second. "It's the mess of it. The way everything suddenly feels out of control. Loud. Wet. Uncomfortable. And it lingers."
"But you like this weather?"
"I love this weather," she said. "It's like the world's holding its breath."
Ethan smiled a little. "I like the rain."
"Of course you do."
He laughed under his breath. "It's honest. It doesn't show up quietly. And it doesn't care if you're ready for it."
A few drops turned into a whisper of drizzle.
Then more.
Not a downpour—just enough to soak through slowly, enough to shift your heartbeat.
I didn't notice until the chill hit my arms.
I looked down.
My white T-shirt clung to my skin, rain making it slowly see-through across my shoulders and chest.
I stiffened.
Ethan noticed. But didn't stare. He didn't even blink hard.
Instead, he quietly took off his hoodie and held it out.
"Here."
I hesitated.
"I'm fine," I whispered.
"You're cold," he said. "And it's okay to be seen, Alexis. But not like this. Not if you didn't choose it."
His voice was careful. Kind.
I took the hoodie.
Pulled it over my head.
It was warm from him. It smelled like his shampoo. And cinnamon. And safety.
We kept walking.
Closer now.
The drizzle still soft.
"You asked why I'm always calm," Ethan said after a minute.
I blinked, surprised. "I didn't."
"You wanted to."
I bit my lip. "Yeah. I did."
He nodded, eyes ahead. "My house growing up... there wasn't a lot of space for loud feelings. My mom was always tired. My dad—he works with numbers, not people. I became the person who smoothed things over."
"You were the buffer."
"Yeah," he said quietly. "The calm one. The one who didn't ask for too much."
I looked at him. "That sounds lonely."
"It was. But it taught me how to notice people. How to listen."
He paused, and then glanced at me.
"That's why I see you, you know. You're not hard to read. You're just not used to being understood."
The rain fell a little heavier then.
Not enough to run.
Just enough to feel it on your skin.
"Are you feeling cold?" he asked.
I looked down at his hoodie on my body. "Not anymore."
"Good."
Then a pause.
Then—
"Want to keep walking?" he asked.
"In the rain?"
He smiled, slow and real. "Why not?"
We walked in silence.
Hands brushing once. Then again.
The third time, neither of us pulled away.
That night, when I walked back into the dorm—soaked hair, flushed cheeks, and Ethan's hoodie clinging to my frame—Amelia looked up from her book, raised an eyebrow so sharp it could cut glass.
"Whose hoodie?"
I froze. "No one's. It was cold."
"Uh-huh."
"Don't start."
"I haven't said anything."
I dropped my bag and made a beeline for the room.
Amelia waited two beats.
Then smiled.
Because what I didn't know was that Amelia had seen us.
From across the field.
From the dorm window.
Walking close.
Hands brushing.
Our heads tilted toward each other like we were trying to memorize the moment before it disappeared.
And Amelia—smug, soft, nosy Amelia—grinned to herself and whispered, "It's about time."
---
I wasn't supposed to feel this warm.
Not after the rain.
Not after the way his hand had brushed mine like it meant something. Like I meant something.
Back in my dorm, I didn't even take off his hoodie. Just curled up under the heavy fabric that smelled like cinnamon and soap—and something deeper. Something steady. Something safe.
But my mind was a mess, spinning faster than the raindrops sliding down the windowpane.
Stop reading into it.
It was just a touch.
You're fooling yourself.
You don't deserve this.
Remember what you always do? Break everything.
I tried to shut it down. Tried to hold onto that warmth, that feeling of softness. But the cold crept in—slow and relentless, seeping into my bones like it wanted to claim me.
When morning came, I got dressed anyway.
Left his hoodie on. I didn't even try to lie to myself about it.
Amelia asked, "Are you okay?"
I nodded.
Because what else was I supposed to say?
"No, I'm feeling like shit but thanks for asking"?
So I lied. Like usual.
And went to class.
By the time the professor started talking, I already knew I wasn't okay.
The words didn't land. They just floated, meaningless, like paper scraps in a storm. My head was cotton. My thoughts were sludge. Nothing stuck.
The lights were too sharp. They sliced at my eyes like razors. Every scrape of a chair, every cough, every pen tap sounded like a fire alarm.
My heart was pounding, way too fast, like it was trying to outrun something.
My chest tightened—just a little at first.
Then a little more. And more.
The air felt thin. My lungs refused to pull it in right. My fingers started tingling, a weird, numb sort of buzz.
I gripped my desk hard, like maybe I could anchor myself, but the panic had already begun its invasion—quiet at first, then screaming.
This is fine, I told myself. You're just tired. Just anxious. Just—
But I knew that voice. I knew what came next.
My stomach turned. A cold sweat broke out across my back. My vision stuttered. Everything went in and out of focus like a broken camera lens.
My fingers wouldn't stop trembling.
Then the whispers started.
Not real ones. Just the mental kind.
The kind that bite.
You're being dramatic. Don't make a scene. You always make everything worse.
Why are you like this? Why can't you just be normal for once?
I couldn't sit there anymore.
I stood up too quickly. The room tilted like a ship at sea.
"Bathroom," I croaked, not waiting for an answer, not caring if anyone heard.
I practically staggered into the hallway. My legs felt like noodles. My whole body buzzed with wrongness.
By the time I reached the bathroom, I was sweating so badly my skin was slick. The mirror showed a pale, glassy-eyed girl in Ethan's hoodie. She didn't look like me.
I leaned over the sink. My breath came in fast, ragged gasps. My heart was a wild, caged thing, slamming into my ribs like it was trying to escape.
I turned on the tap. Splashed water on my face.
Didn't help.
Everything was spinning now.
My knees wobbled. My arms felt like rubber. The whole room swayed.
You're fine. You're fine. You're fi—
Black edges started creeping into my vision. My hearing dulled, like I was underwater.
I reached for the wall. Missed.
And then—
I dropped.