The thing about saying I love you for the first time was that everything after it had a slightly different quality. Not dramatically different — nothing between us was ever dramatic — but different in the small ways that actually mattered. The way he looked at me across BIO 215. The way I stopped qualifying things when I talked about him to Denise. The way his name felt different in my own head now — not lighter exactly, but more settled. Like something that had found its right place. Denise found out on Saturday morning. I hadn't planned to tell her immediately — I'd intended to sit with it for a day or two, process it properly in my own way before sharing it. But she took one look at my face when I came back from the bathroom and said, very quietly: "Something happened." I sat on my

