Something About You and Me

CHAPTER-13

The week that followed our first café meeting felt like a slow-motion dream. Each day carried a whisper of anticipation I hadn’t realized I was holding in my chest. Classes, rehearsals, and the constant hum of the city faded into a blur the moment I knew I could see him again.

We didn’t immediately plan “dates.” It wasn’t formal, not at first. We started small: short walks between campus buildings, brief coffee breaks when our schedules barely aligned, lingering in corners of the library that nobody noticed. Each encounter, though fleeting, left a mark, a quiet imprint that made ordinary moments feel electric.

One Thursday evening, he texted:
"Coffee after rehearsal? I found a place that makes chocolate croissants like they were stolen from Paris."

I blinked at the screen, a smile creeping across my face despite the exhaustion of the day. My fingers hesitated before typing:
"Only if you promise to tell me how you know Paris tastes."

The reply came almost immediately:
"Trade secrets. Meet me in ten?"

I arrived a little flustered, scarf wrapped twice around my neck, hair pulled into a messy ponytail. The café smelled of roasted beans, warm pastries, and vanilla, a combination that made my chest tighten for no reason I could explain.

He was already there, leaning casually against the counter, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes scanning the room until they found me. That small, almost imperceptible lift of his eyebrows made my heart lurch.

"Hey," I said, voice low, flustered.

"Hey," he replied, sliding into the chair across from me. His gaze was steady, calm, but there was a spark there—an unspoken acknowledgment that neither of us had to explain why we were here.

We ordered, naturally, his croissant and coffee, my tea steeped just right, and fell into easy conversation. At first, it was about nothing, assignments, music, the absurdity of finals week, but gradually, it became everything.

"You know," he said, leaning forward slightly, hands folded, "I’ve been thinking. I like these quiet moments with you. It’s… different. Relaxing, even. You make it feel like everything else can wait."

My cheeks heated. I wanted to protest that it was mutual, that my world suddenly spun around him more than I would admit, but I just nodded, words catching in my throat.

"I’m glad," I managed, voice soft. "I… feel the same."

That simple confession, unplanned, hung between us. It was delicate, fragile, yet strong enough to make my pulse race. We laughed a little, and for a moment, the world outside the café ceased to exist.

Later, we walked back toward my apartment, the streetlamps casting halos of light on the sidewalk. Each step brought us closer together, our arms brushing, each touch sending a shiver I tried not to notice.

At one point, he stopped suddenly. "Look at that sky," he said, tilting his head back. The stars were faint but visible, sprinkled thinly across the dark canvas. "Makes everything feel… smaller."

I looked up, squinting. "Smaller?"

"In a good way," he said, glancing at me sideways. "Like… problems aren’t so huge, moments are… bigger. And sometimes, it’s the small things that matter most."

I nodded slowly, my chest tight. I understood completely. Every laugh, every brush of fingers across the café table, every glance seemed monumental, precious.

We left the café with a quiet energy between us, the kind that made every step feel synchronized even when we weren’t talking. The streets were empty, the late evening air crisp enough to pull our coats tighter, but not enough to make us want to rush.

"So…" I said, letting the word hang like a bridge I wasn’t sure I could cross. "What made you think of this café?"

He chuckled softly. "I walked by it one day and thought… it felt like the kind of place you’d like. Quiet, cozy. Not too many people. And then I remembered you like chocolate croissants."

I raised an eyebrow. "You remembered that?"

He shrugged, casual, but his eyes betrayed him.

There was a flicker of something softer there. "I notice things. About you."

I felt my stomach tighten in a way that was completely unfair. "You… notice a lot, huh?" I asked, teasing, though my voice shook slightly.

He laughed, the sound low and easy, not mocking, just… warm. "I try. It’s… nice to notice things about someone you actually care about."

I let that settle, a small bubble of warmth creeping through my chest. Care about me. The words repeated in my mind, curling around the quiet ache of longing I’d been holding in since the park.

Over the next week, our encounters became their own kind of rhythm. We studied together in the library, our heads bent over books, papers, and laptops, shoulders brushing occasionally. Each accidental contact made my heart skip, though we never mentioned it. It didn’t need words.

One afternoon, after a particularly exhausting rehearsal, he suggested a walk. The campus was quiet, the late afternoon sun casting a golden haze over everything. I let him take my hand without thinking, and he didn’t pull away.

"Hey," he said, soft, almost shy. "You’ve been pushing yourself too hard."

I shook my head. "I can manage."

"No," he countered gently, squeezing my hand once. "I mean… you’re too hard on yourself. You need breaks, you need people around you. And I… I want to be around. If you’ll let me."

I swallowed, the words heavy in their simplicity. I nodded. "I… want that too."

We walked like that for a while, hands intertwined, a quiet current flowing between us that made the world feel smaller, softer. I found myself stealing glances at him, noting the way the sunlight hit his hair, the slight curve of his smile when he talked about nothing at all.

A few days later, he invited me to a small outdoor music showcase. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I agreed anyway, feeling the kind of reckless excitement that comes from knowing someone else’s presence will change everything.

We arrived just before sunset. The city’s skyline was painted in warm orange and purple, and the venue smelled faintly of popcorn and summer grass. He held the ticket in his hand, offering it to me with that calm smile of his.

"I am sure you’ll enjoy it," he said.

I laughed "I am sure I would. I… I just like being here. With you."

And that simple sentence, almost too casual, felt monumental as we walked inside. The music started, gentle at first, a soft acoustic melody that filled the air without overpowering it. We found seats near the back, but close enough to the stage to catch expressions and small nuances.

"See," he whispered, leaning slightly closer, "music feels different with someone you like nearby."

I felt my chest tighten, but smiled. "Yeah… it does."

He didn’t say anything else, just let me sit there with that thought. And I let myself. For once, I didn’t analyze, didn’t overthink. I just felt.

By the weekend, we had managed a mini “date” at a small bookstore. I wandered the aisles aimlessly while he browsed poetry sections, occasionally reading passages aloud just to hear my reaction.

"You like this?" he asked, holding a thin book of poems.

"I… I think so," I replied. "It’s… gentle. Quiet."

He handed it to me, letting our fingers brush for just a second too long. "Kind of like… you."

I blinked, the words hitting me harder than I expected. "Me?"

"Yeah," he said simply, gaze steady. "You notice things, you… hold space for quiet moments. You make everything feel softer, calmer. And I… like that."

My stomach flipped. I wanted to tell him I felt the same, over and over, but the words caught. Instead, I just nodded, letting the silence carry our emotions.

Later that night, we shared a walk home under a crescent moon. It was cold enough for jackets but warm enough for hands to brush. And as we approached my apartment building, he paused, turning toward me.

"I… had a really good day," he said quietly. "Thanks for letting me share it with you."

I smiled, the kind that reaches the eyes. "Me too. I… I like it when we’re together."

A beat of silence. A brush of fingers. Then he leaned slightly closer, a soft, tentative move, and my heart jumped.

"I don’t know how to do this," he whispered. "Not the world, not the chaos… just… us."

"You’re doing it," I said softly, voice catching. "Just… being here. That’s enough."

He smiled, exhaling slowly, letting the tension ease. And then, just before parting ways, he took my hand fully this time. Our fingers intertwined, and we stood there for a long moment, letting the city hum around us while we held our small, shared space.

"Goodnight," he said finally.

"Goodnight," I replied, heart full, chest tight with quiet elation.

The following week brought more of these moments: quiet breakfasts before early classes, walks through empty streets after late rehearsals, and sitting on the park bench under streetlights that had once been the scene of confessions and vulnerability.

Each encounter, each tiny touch, each laugh became its own little milestone. I was learning him, and he was learning me. Slowly. Tentatively. But the truth was undeniable.

We fit into each other’s spaces naturally, even in a world that often demanded distance and schedules and appearances.

And the more I let myself feel, the more I realized that this.

Us.

was something I didn’t want to rush or explain. I just wanted to exist in it.

By the end of the week, my journal was filled with half-written reflections, scribbles about stolen glances, and small confessions I didn’t have the courage to say aloud.

But one night, lying in bed, I knew: it wasn’t about the words anymore. It was about presence, the way someone could make you feel safe and seen in a world that often demanded performance. And with him, I felt it. Fully.

CHAPTER-13 END