When We Almost Loved

1.1 To Jake and the Letter Jake never liked reading letters, especially the kind you can’t reply to. He stood under the gray sky, the cold air biting through his jacket. In his hand was a small, crumpled envelope, corners soft from being held too often. The ink on the front had smudged, but her handwriting was still there—round and fast, like she wrote it in a rush because she wanted to say something before she changed her mind. "To Jake" That was all it said. He had not opened that letter. Not after the funeral. Not after the questions. Not after the silence. Every time he tried, the guilt would claw its way up to his throat and choke him. He wasn’t ready. A breeze rustled the dried grass at the foot of her gravestone. MIA SANTOS October 8, 2003 – March 2, 2022 “Loved quietly. Lived fiercely.” He closed his eyes. She had said once that cemeteries weren’t sad places—just quiet ones. Places where you could hear the truth if you listened hard enough. He tightened his grip on the envelope that was still sealed and waiting. And for the hundredth time, he whispered the question that had haunted him since the night she left: "Why didn’t we just say it?" 1.2 The First Meeting One Year Earlier. It was the first Tuesday of the semester, and Jake already regretted signing up for Introduction to Contemporary Literature, not because he hated reading—he loved it, quietly, like everything else in his life. What annoyed him was that the classroom was full of noise, people, and someone’s neon orange hair that kept catching his attention and hurting his eyes. She sat two rows ahead of him, leaning on her elbow, twirling a pen between her fingers like she was trying to stir the air. Mia Santos. Everyone knew who she was. The girl who sold hand-drawn stickers online. The girl who once live-painted a protest mural on the campus wall during lunch break, after a professor rejected their group project for being submitted late, even though the group claimed there had been a misunderstanding about his instructions. The girl who would laugh loudly, talk fast, and never seem afraid of anything. Jake liked silence. Mia was allergic to it. In his head, he wished he were somewhere else—preferably a world where girls like her didn’t exist—the kind who spoke in exclamation points and filled quiet spaces without being asked. He tilted his head slightly, frowned for barely a second, and began tapping his fingers against the table—an unconscious habit when he was restless. He was starting to feel the itch of discomfort creeping in. If he had it his way, he’d go straight home, shut the door, and sink into the glow of his favorite online game where he didn’t have to talk to anyone—or think. So, of course, when the professor said, “Partner up for your semester project,” fate did the one thing it always did to quiet boys—it gave them a storm. "Jake, right?" she said, turning toward him with a half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "You look like someone who reads books." He blinked. "...sometimes." "Perfect. I sketch, you annotate. This’ll work." And just like that, she sat beside him—completely uninvited. Jake shot her a sharp, piercing stare, but it did nothing. She only smiled, looped her arms around his left arm, leaned her head gently against his shoulder for a second, and gave him a playful wink—like she had just won a silent battle he didn’t agree to fight. That was how it started. Later that night, Mia sat cross-legged on her bed, wrapped in an oversized hoodie, her sketchbook resting on her lap like a confession she couldn’t make with words. The room was quiet, but her mind was not. She had drawn a pair of eyes—intense, a little sad, a little curious. His eyes. She shaded the corners carefully, trying to capture something she wasn’t ready to admit out loud. Then she frowned. “Too soft,” she whispered. “Too honest.” With a frustrated sigh, she flipped the page. Started again. Sharper lines this time. Less feeling. More distance. Still wrong. So she drew again and again, page after page, trying to sketch him without revealing that she had memorized his face and how his frown settled between his brows like a permanent scar. Looking at her sketch, she wondered if he ever smiled when no one was looking. The next day, the sun began to rise, casting pale light across the cluttered floor. She stared at her latest attempt, her hand hovering above it, the pencil paused, then she quietly closed the sketchbook and lay back on her bed. Because for all the energy she carried in daylight, Mia Santos was terrified of drawing the truth, especially when it looked like longing. Jake was home too. He sat at his desk, the warm light of his lamp flickering faintly over scattered notes and an untouched energy drink. His phone buzzed beside him for the fifth time in ten minutes—messages he had no intention of replying to. He let it buzz. In the corner of his class notebook, under the heading The Things We Leave Unsaid, he noticed a scribble he didn’t remember writing: "Some people talk too much just to avoid what they really mean." His pen hovered over the words. Was that about someone? Himself? He shook his head. No, he thought. I don't hide behind words. I just don’t use them. But as he leaned back, stretching his neck, a familiar voice echoed in his mind like static—sharp, loud, inescapable. Mia. Because she talked a lot today. About world peace. About how gender equality wasn’t just a classroom discussion but a daily fight. About how girls are expected to smile even when they’re tired or scared or barely holding it together. About professors who assign too much and care too little. About the pressure to be “honor student material” even when you’re barely surviving. About student loans, overpriced canteen food, period cramps, and why the campus vending machine never works when you need chocolate the most. She had jumped from one topic to the next like there was a clock ticking in her head, like she had to say everything before the day ended. Jake could still hear her voice, animated and relentless, filling all the space he usually kept for silence. His ears were ringing. His head was tired. And yet... he hadn’t walked away. That was the strange part. He could’ve just stood up and left, made an excuse, and closed the door like he always did, but instead, he sat there and listened. He sighed, leaned forward again, and stared at the blank part of the page. He didn’t write anything more. But for the first time, the quiet of his room didn’t feel comforting. It felt... incomplete. 1.3 She Like Ice Back in class the next day, Jake was already in his seat—early, quiet, mechanical. His posture was sharp, his spine straight, as if he were bracing for war. Mia arrived five minutes late, as usual, with iced coffee in one hand and a hopelessly messy folder in the other. She slid into her seat beside him and stared for a moment before blurting out, “Do you always sit that straight? You’re like... emotionally upright.” Jake didn’t look at her right away. He’d already braced himself for the impact the moment he saw her neon-orange hair in the hallway. “You talk like silence is poison,” he muttered under his breath, eyes still on his notebook. She grinned like he’d just complimented her. “Maybe it is,” she said, setting her drink down with a thud. “I mean, when it gets quiet, my brain goes rogue. Starts thinking stuff I don’t want to think about.” Jake raised an eyebrow, just a flicker. Thinking what? But he didn’t ask. He never asked. Instead, he glanced sideways and said, “You ever just… stop?” Mia sipped her coffee and leaned in, her voice playful but low enough only he could hear. “You ever just start?” That time, he almost smiled. Almost. But he caught himself and blinked the expression away like it was a glitch in his programming. From behind them, Alyanna, the campus cheerleader, snorted. “Look at Mia again, trying to tame the Ice Prince. He’s literally stone.” Carla, another classmate, giggled. “Honestly, I don’t know how you sit next to that guy and not freeze.” Mia whipped her head around and shot them a saccharine smile. “I like the cold. It keeps things from rotting.” Jake stiffened but didn’t speak. She turned back to him and added, quieter this time, “Besides... I don’t need him to melt. I just need him to listen.” He didn’t reply. But his pen had stopped moving.