The snow had softened by the time Kate reached the top of the hill. She stood beneath the iron streetlamp, watching the warm glow of Andrew's window fade behind a gauzy curtain. Her breath came in little clouds, rising into the still night. She hadn't meant to go to his house. Not really. But something had pulled her forward — not a plan, just a feeling. A need.
She turned from his home, heart loud in her chest. The words she had spoken replayed in her mind like an echo down a corridor: "I do." Three syllables. So small. And yet, they had taken everything.
Kate had always known how she felt about Andrew.
From the first day she saw him — quiet, steady, with that kind sadness in his eyes — she knew he was different. He wasn't like the boys who sought attention or spoke too loudly. He was the kind who stayed after class to help pick up papers. The kind who noticed when someone looked lonely and sat beside them without saying much.
That's how he found Emma, of course.
Emma had a light. The kind that attracted everything — moths, stars, boys, girls. And Andrew had stepped into that orbit willingly. He became her shadow, her listener, her constant. And Kate... Kate became invisible.
It wasn't Emma's fault.
Kate didn't hate her. She envied her, perhaps. But she couldn't blame someone for being seen. That wasn't fair.
She kicked a patch of snow and started walking, passing the hedge-lined fences and shuttered windows of the neighborhood. Everything was quiet — that wintry kind of quiet where even thoughts sound louder than they should.
She remembered standing behind them at the café last autumn. Emma was laughing — head tilted, eyes bright. Andrew was watching her, not with hunger, but with reverence. And Kate had realized, then, that she might never be able to interrupt that kind of love. So she hadn't tried.
Until tonight.
Until she saw Andrew walking back alone.
There had been something hollow in his posture, like someone holding too many things and trying not to drop any. Kate had followed, heart pounding. Not to take anything from Emma. Just to offer something Andrew had never asked for — recognition.
He'd let her in.
That was more than she expected.
Kate reached her home, the little brick house near the edge of town, where ivy clung stubbornly to the chimney and frost painted the windows. Her parents were asleep. The porch light flickered as she stepped inside.
She sat on her bed, coat still on, the quiet ticking of the clock her only company. Her hands were trembling.
She didn't regret it.
Even if he never looked at her that way. Even if all she'd done was give him one warm moment in a night filled with cold ones. It mattered. Because for once, she wasn't the girl who watched from the back row. She wasn't the afterthought, or the shadow, or the one who waited for no one.
She'd spoken.
She curled up under her blanket, still wearing her boots, her mind replaying the tea, the silence, the way he'd looked at her — not with desire, but with understanding. Maybe that was enough for now.
Across town, Emma would be dreaming.
And Andrew would be awake, holding onto something fragile.
Kate smiled to herself, whispering into the dark:
"Let her have his memories. I'll wait for what he becomes."
Outside, the snow kept falling.
And the girl who waited slept, her heart no longer hidden, but softly, finally, unfolding.
The morning sun filtered through the stained-glass windows of the lecture hall, casting fractured rainbows across rows of wooden desks. Students shuffled in with scarves half-wrapped and notebooks clutched like shields. The scent of old paper, ink, and snow-damp coats hung in the air.
Andrew sat in the second row, silent as ever, his hands folded on the desk. Emma arrived moments later, her footsteps lighter than usual, hair slightly tousled. She slid into the seat beside him with a whisper of fabric.
"Morning," she murmured.
He nodded, eyes forward.
Professor Morin began his lecture on classical literature — impassioned, rambling, always circling back to themes of tragedy and desire. Students took notes diligently. Others doodled. Some stared blankly into the frost-lined windows.
Jason arrived late, as usual.
His coat was still slung over one shoulder, scarf undone, boots muddy. He dropped into the back row with an easy grin and a wink thrown toward Emma. She smiled, cheeks blooming faintly.
Andrew didn't look. Not at Jason. Not at her.
Kate sat three rows behind him. Her eyes flickered from Andrew's still form to Emma's gentle smile. She could feel the change in the air. Subtle, but sharp. Like the chill before a storm.
Then it happened.
Michael — tall, proud, always teetering on the edge of arrogance — turned around in his seat. His voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Bit of a distraction, don't you think, Morin? Some of us are trying to learn."
Professor Morin stopped mid-sentence, startled. "Pardon, Mr. Doyle?"
Michael pointed, not subtly, toward Jason. "Just saying — maybe some students should spend less time playing the rogue and more time studying."
Jason's smile didn't falter. "Didn't know you were so easily distracted, Doyle. Sounds like a you problem."
Michael chuckled darkly. "I just prefer not to share a room with sluts and the dogs that chase them."
The silence that followed wasn't just stunned — it was shattering.
Emma froze, her smile evaporating. A murmur ran through the class like a ripple through ice. Jason stood, fists clenched, grin gone.
"What did you say?"
Michael rose to meet him. "You heard me."
Jason didn't wait. He lunged. The desk crashed aside. A fist flew. Someone screamed. Emma backed away in shock. Professor Morin tried to intervene, but it was chaos — books toppling, shouts echoing.
Andrew stood, heart thundering, a flash of protective instinct surging — but a hand gripped his arm.
Kate.
Her eyes were wide. Pleading. "Don't," she whispered. "You'll only make it worse."
For one suspended moment, Andrew hesitated.
Jason slammed Michael into a desk before guards stormed in. Blood. Broken glass. Shouts. Students pulled back like tide from shore.
And Andrew — still standing, still silent — watched as Jason was dragged from the room, breathing like a cornered wolf. Michael followed, face bloodied, still smirking.
Emma stood trembling by the door, looking first at the chaos… then at Andrew.
Their eyes met.
Hers asked: Why didn't you do something?
His answered: I don't know.
And then she was gone.