Lingering Moments
763 Words
I should have gone straight to class.
The sun had fully broken through the clouds, drying the last puddles on campus, but the warmth of the day didn’t reach me. Not really.
Because my thoughts were still there.
With him.
Adrian.
Every glance, every smile, every small, deliberate touch of our hands replayed in my mind like a loop I couldn’t escape. It wasn’t just infatuation anymore. It was… more. Deeper. Dangerous. And I didn’t even know him.
I tried to push the feelings away as I walked through the crowded campus. But it was impossible. Every group of students, every laugh, every shadow made me pause, wondering if he might appear.
Which, of course, he did.
⸻
I spotted him across the quad, leaning against a tree, talking to a few classmates. His posture casual, but every movement precise. The sunlight caught the damp strands of hair falling over his forehead from the rain the other day, and I swore I could feel the same pull as when we first met.
My heart jumped.
I wanted to approach.
I wanted to run the other way.
I wanted to stay exactly where I was.
The universe had no instructions for what to do when someone like Adrian appeared in your life.
⸻
He noticed me immediately.
I could feel it. The subtle shift in his gaze. The tilt of his head. That small, calculating smile that made my chest tighten.
I stopped walking, suddenly frozen.
He excused himself from his friends and began to approach.
I tried to act casual. Pretend I hadn’t been waiting — no, hoping — to see him.
“Hey,” he said when he reached me, voice low, teasing, and impossibly smooth.
“Hey,” I managed, heart hammering in my chest.
We walked together, not speaking much at first, just sharing space. Each step brought a strange electricity that neither of us could deny. The campus seemed quieter, smaller, more focused. Like we had carved out a little bubble for just the two of us.
“You’ve been busy?” he asked casually, glancing at me with those eyes that felt like they could see right through me.
I shrugged. “Classes. Life. The usual.”
“Nothing fun?”
I tried to shrug again, but my cheeks betrayed me. “Depends on what you consider fun.”
His gaze lingered. I felt it all over — chest, arms, stomach. Every nerve was alert.
Then he smiled that same, infuriating smile. “I think I already know what fun is.”
I laughed nervously, trying not to show how much that little sentence affected me.
⸻
We talked a little more as we walked through campus, small talk that felt monumental in the way it connected us. Every accidental brush of hands, every subtle laugh, every glance became a tiny earthquake in my chest.
And then reality intruded again.
⸻
I had to go.
He had to go.
It wasn’t a busy library or a crowded hallway this time — it was life itself. Classes, schedules, obligations. We paused near the campus fountain, where students were tossing coins and making wishes.
“Until next time,” he said softly.
“Yeah,” I whispered.
Our hands brushed again. The moment lingered longer than it should have. My stomach fluttered. My chest tightened.
And then I had to leave.
I turned, taking a deep breath, trying to calm the whirlwind inside me. But before I could walk away, I felt it — the weight of his eyes following me.
Not casually. Not indifferently. But like he wanted to memorize every detail, every step, every line of my face.
And I knew… I felt the same.
⸻
The rest of the day passed in a blur.
Classes, notes, professors — none of it mattered. My mind kept returning to him. To his smile, his laugh, the way he had looked at me like I was the only person in the world.
By the time I returned to my dorm, I couldn’t sit still.
I paced.
I tried to read.
I tried to focus on homework.
Nothing worked.
Because every thought brought me back to him.
⸻
That night, in bed, I replayed the day over and over.
His eyes. His voice. His hands. The brush of his arm against mine.
And the worst part?
I had no idea what to do with it.
The pull between us was undeniable. Electric. Dangerous. And entirely beyond my control.
And for the first time, I realized…
I didn’t want to control it.
- Writer
