THIS IS WHAT MARMALADE TASTES LIKE

Chapter 2: Where Love Was Procrastinated

Flashback - Aira’s POV

There were days when I thought maybe—just maybe—he looked at me differently.

Not the way he looked at others, not with that usual spark of mischief he carried in his grin. When Rayyan looked at me, something in him seemed to pause, like the world dimmed around us, and he needed just a moment longer to see me. Like I was the quiet in his storm.

But he never said anything.

And I—God, I was too afraid to ask.

So I told myself stories to soften the ache.

I told myself: he’s just naturally kind, he’s just like this with everyone, he’s not mine to want.

But still, every time he sat beside me, our knees brushing, my heart would tighten in my chest like it was holding its breath.

We had this pattern.

The late-night study sessions where we hardly studied.

The way he always brought me snacks when he knew I skipped dinner.

The shared playlists, exchanged glances in between jokes.

The silence that would sometimes stretch too long—charged, unsure, almost something.

And the night that still haunts me.

It was raining. Not the kind of wild, thundering rain that demands attention, but the soft kind that lulls the world into a slow, sleepy hush. We were alone in the student lounge again—both pretending we had things to finish.

I remember glancing up from my notebook, only to find him already watching me.

He didn’t look away.

Just smiled. Small. A little sad.

“I like this version of you,” he murmured, his voice barely above the hum of the air conditioner.

I blinked. “What version?”

“The quiet one. The one who lets me stay in her silence.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. My throat tightened. I wanted to reach out, say something that would open the door between us.

Something like stay.

Something like I think I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.

But the words jammed against my teeth, afraid to fall out.

Afraid of what it might mean.

So I just laughed lightly, pushed my hair behind my ear, and looked back at my notebook as if the lines on the page meant anything at all.

Moments later, he stood and stretched, his hoodie riding up slightly to reveal a sliver of skin. I looked away too quickly. I heard him chuckle.

“You’re weird tonight,” he said.

“You’re always weird,” I replied, my voice lighter than my heart.

We walked back to our dorms in silence. We shared an umbrella, shoulders brushing with every step. My fingers itched to reach for his hand. But again, I didn’t.

And when he stopped at my door, he looked like he wanted to say something…

He didn’t.

He only said, “Goodnight, Aira.”

I remember nodding, my voice stuck somewhere in my throat.

“Night, Rayyan.”

And when the door closed behind me, I leaned against it, heart pounding like I had run a marathon without moving an inch.

It felt like something had almost happened.

Almost.

But it didn’t.

And that was the story of us for a long, long time.

A series of almost.

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Flashback – Rayyan’s POV

They say silence is safe.

But with Aira, silence was dangerous.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know how I felt about her. I did.

God, I knew.

Every time she walked into a room, my heart betrayed me.

Every time she laughed, the world tilted slightly in her direction.

Every time she looked at me — really looked — I wanted to believe it meant something more.

But I never asked.

I never said anything.

Because fear?

Fear dressed itself as patience.

It told me:

"Now’s not the right time."

“She doesn’t see you that way.”

“Don’t ruin what you already have.”

And so I waited.

And waited.

I remember one night more than the rest. It was that quiet evening when we stayed too long in the lounge, pretending we had work.

She sat on the couch across from me, hair tied up messily, her sweater slightly oversized, her eyes unfocused on her notes.

She looked so peaceful. So hers. And I wanted to touch her — not in some desperate way — but like I wanted to trace the line of her jaw, tuck that stubborn strand of hair behind her ear, and whisper:

“Let me love you.”

But I didn’t move.

I watched her.

I listened to the rain tapping the glass like a reminder.

Time is slipping.

Tell her.

My heart screamed it.

But my tongue froze behind my teeth.

She looked up. Our eyes met.

And for a moment — just one damn moment — I swear, she saw me. All of me. The version that only existed for her.

I almost said it.

Almost told her: “This isn’t just friendship, you know.”

“I like this version of you,” I murmured.

Her brows furrowed, confused.

“What version?”

I shrugged lightly, trying to downplay how exposed I felt.

“The quiet one. The one who lets me stay in her silence.”

What I didn’t say was—I wanted to stay in all her versions.

She looked away, flustered, pushing her hair behind her ear like she always did when she didn’t know how to respond. And suddenly I panicked.

Too much, too honest.

So I teased.

“You’re weird tonight.”

She laughed—thank God—and fired back,

“You’re always weird.”

I smiled, but deep down I hated myself a little.

Because once again, I’d danced around the truth.

That moment could’ve been everything.

I felt her leaning toward me emotionally, but instead of meeting her halfway… I deflected. Like always.

When we walked back, shoulders touching under one umbrella, I kept thinking: “Why are we pretending?”

When we reached her door, I lingered. I wanted to ask if I could come in. Not for anything stupid—just to sit beside her, closer this time. Just to feel what it might be like if we stopped waiting.

But again... I said nothing.

“Goodnight, Aira.”

She smiled gently. “Night, Rayyan.”

And that was it.

The door closed, and I was left with all the words I didn’t say.

So many damn chances.

And I let every one of them pass.

I don’t know why I kept waiting.

Maybe I thought I wasn’t good enough.

Maybe I thought she’d laugh, or worse—pity me.

Maybe I thought I’d lose her completely if I said the wrong thing.

And so, I told myself it wasn’t the right time.

Every time.

But the truth?

I procrastinated, loving her out loud.

And now... looking back, I wonder how many versions of her I missed while I stayed silent.

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Flashback – Aira’s POV

There was a day when I thought, “This is it. I’m going to tell him.”

It was late afternoon, the golden kind, when shadows were long and soft and made the world feel gentler than it actually was. We were at that little café tucked behind the faculty building — the one with half-working ceiling fans and indie music always playing just a little too loud. I had chosen that spot on purpose. It was quiet, private, and warm. Like the kind of place where truths could be safely spoken.

He sat across from me, coffee in hand, tapping his fingers on the table while scrolling through his phone. I kept watching him, waiting for the right moment, rehearsing the words for the hundredth time in my head.

“Rayyan… I think I’ve loved you for a long time.”

But before I could speak, he let out a soft laugh — the kind that was real, the kind I loved.

He smiled at his screen. Not at me.

“Sorry,” he said, still half-laughing, not noticing the way my breath hitched. “Nina just sent me a meme. She’s so damn weird.”

And just like that—everything inside me stilled.

Nina.

That name landed like a weight on my stomach. He had never mentioned her before. Not once.

I stared at him, at the stupid joy in his eyes, at how natural he looked in that moment — smiling because of someone else. My throat burned, but I managed to smile.

“What?” he asked, catching the way I suddenly froze.

“Nothing,” I said, spooning my melting ice cream absently. “You really like weird people, huh?”

He grinned. “Yeah. Guess that’s just my type.”

I laughed. Lightly. Casually. As if I didn’t feel the floor shifting beneath me.

I stayed until we finished our coffee. I smiled in all the right places. I listened to him talk about classes, deadlines, and Nina, who apparently “gets his humor better than anyone.”

But inside, I was folding.

When I got back to my dorm, I stared at the message I’d written to him three days ago. The one still unsent.

Rayyan, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you…

I hovered over it for a moment, eyes blurring, thumb trembling.

And then I deleted it.

No backup. No second draft.

Just gone.

That night, I played our café conversation on repeat until the silence rang louder than the memory. I kept wondering what hurt more — the fact that he smiled because of someone else, or the fact that I still couldn’t bring myself to stop loving him.

I told myself I’d move on.

I told myself I had imagined it all — the lingering stares, the gentle touches, the way his voice always softened when he said my name.

I told myself, if he wanted me, he would’ve known.

But the truth was simpler, colder.

We both waited.

And in the space between waiting… we almost lost everything.

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“Love didn’t forget us. We just paused too long at the edge of maybe.”

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