Lines We Start Crossing
1162 Words
I kept telling myself it was just a group assignment.
Nothing more.
Just three students. One topic. One deadline.
Simple.
But nothing about Amir Bello felt simple.
Not even the way he sent the message.
“Meet at the library. 4PM. Don’t be late.”
No greeting.
No emoji.
No “please.”
Just instructions.
I stared at my phone for a moment after reading it.
Zainab, sitting across my bed in my room, watched my face carefully. “Don’t tell me that’s him.”
“It’s him.”
She groaned loudly and fell backward onto the bed. “Why is he texting like a commander?”
“I was thinking the same thing,” I admitted.
“And you’re still going?” she asked immediately.
I hesitated.
That hesitation said too much.
Zainab sat up again. “Amira.”
“I don’t have a choice,” I said quickly. “It’s a group assignment.”
She gave me a look. “There’s always a choice.”
I didn’t respond.
Because the truth was… I could feel it already.
I was going.
Not because I had to.
But because part of me wanted to know what would happen if I did.
—
The library was quieter than I remembered.
It always smelled like old books and overworked students.
I arrived exactly at 4:03.
Not late.
Not early.
Just… there.
And he was already sitting at a corner table.
Of course he was.
Laptop open. Notes neatly arranged. Pen aligned perfectly beside his notebook.
Like he had been waiting for me without actually needing to wait.
I walked toward him slowly.
When I reached the table, I stopped.
He didn’t look up immediately.
Just said, “You’re late.”
I frowned. “I’m three minutes late.”
He finally lifted his eyes. “That’s late.”
I blinked at him. “You’re serious.”
“I don’t waste time,” he said simply.
I dropped my bag onto the chair opposite him. “Noted.”
That made him pause for a second.
Just a second.
Then he gestured to the seat. “Sit.”
I sat.
Silence settled between us.
Not the comfortable kind.
The kind that made you aware of every small sound—the turning pages, the tapping of a distant keyboard, my own breathing.
“I already started the outline,” he said.
“Without me?” I asked.
“You weren’t here.”
I leaned forward slightly. “I said I was coming.”
“And I said don’t be late.”
I stared at him for a moment.
Then shook my head. “You’re difficult.”
“I’m efficient,” he corrected.
“Same thing,” I muttered under my breath.
His eyes flicked up again. “No. It’s not.”
I opened my mouth to argue—
Then closed it again.
Because something about him made arguments feel like they had rules I didn’t know.
Instead, I pulled out my notebook. “Fine. What’s the topic?”
He slid a printed sheet across the table.
I picked it up.
Read it.
And immediately frowned. “This is… advanced.”
“Yes.”
“We’re first and second year students,” I reminded him.
“I know.”
“So why does it look like something final year students would cry over?”
He leaned back slightly in his chair. “Because I don’t like basic work.”
I stared at him.
“Do you ever do anything normally?” I asked.
His gaze stayed on me for a moment.
Then he said, “No.”
Just that.
One word.
But it made something in my chest shift again.
I cleared my throat and looked back down at the paper. “Okay. So where do we start?”
“Research,” he said immediately. “We divide it.”
I nodded slowly. “Fine.”
Then added, “You really don’t like wasting time, do you?”
His pen paused.
Just slightly.
Then he said, “No.”
Another silence.
This one felt… different.
I looked up again.
And for the first time since I sat down, I noticed something else.
He wasn’t just focused.
He was observant.
Like he noticed everything.
The way I tapped my pen.
The way I read twice before speaking.
The way I kept looking up at him without meaning to.
“You overthink,” he said suddenly.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You overthink everything you read.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’ve known me for less than a day.”
“I’ve observed you for less than a day,” he corrected.
“That’s worse.”
A faint pause.
Then—
“You hesitate before answering,” he continued. “And you ask questions even when you already know the answer.”
I leaned back slightly. “Are you analyzing me right now?”
“Yes.”
My mouth opened slightly.
Then closed again.
Because he wasn’t even smiling.
He wasn’t teasing.
He was just… stating it like fact.
Like I was a puzzle he had already started solving.
“That’s weird,” I said finally.
“Useful,” he corrected again.
I shook my head. “You’re impossible.”
“And you talk too much,” he said calmly.
That made me stop.
I stared at him.
Then, slowly, I said, “I don’t talk too much.”
He looked at me.
Longer this time.
Then said, “You do.”
I should’ve been annoyed.
I should’ve argued again.
But instead—
I found myself asking, “And what else do you think you’ve observed about me?”
The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them.
Because something shifted in his expression again.
Not obvious.
But there.
He looked at me for a second longer than before.
Then said quietly,
“You’re not as indifferent as you try to be.”
My heart paused.
Just for a beat.
“What does that mean?” I asked softly.
But he didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he closed his laptop slightly.
Leaning forward just a little.
And said,
“It means you’re already involved. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
Silence.
Not library silence.
Not background noise silence.
Something heavier.
Something louder.
I swallowed slowly.
“That’s a bold assumption,” I said, trying to sound normal.
He didn’t move.
“I don’t assume,” he said. “I notice.”
I looked away first.
Which annoyed me.
Because I didn’t usually look away first.
“Let’s just do the work,” I said quickly.
“Good,” he replied.
But even as I opened my notebook again—
I felt it.
That same thing from before.
That quiet pressure in the air between us.
Like I hadn’t just joined a group project.
Like I had stepped closer to something I wasn’t ready to name.
And worse…
Like Amir Bello already knew I wouldn’t walk away easily.
- Writer
