I would choose you

Clay and silver

The snow storm had turned from novelty to permanence. It no longer fell with a sense of drama, it simply was, like the stone walls of the college or the low hiss of the radiators. The days blurred, unanchored from their meaning now that classes were over and there were no more trains to catch, no more papers to hand in.

Most of the students had started wandering. Some slept till noon, others paced the halls like ghosts. The Fine Arts department, perhaps in an act of mercy, opened their studios to all faculties, “to fight off madness", one of the professors said, gesturing at the gray beyond the windows.

I took it as a sign.

Originally, I hadn’t planned to give anyone gifts except for Arthur for Secret Santa. I figured I’d bring something back from home for Nicole and Hannah after the break. But now that there would be no break, no trip home, the idea of not giving them something felt wrong. I decided to make something.

Hannah was my best friend. In the most honest sense of the word. I trusted her with everything. She made me laugh when I didn’t think I could, reminded me to eat, squeezed my hand when I was scared before our first philosophy exam.

And Nicole...

I didn’t know what we were. We weren’t best friends, not like Hannah and me, but there was something else there. A kind of quiet gravity that pulled us toward each other. When we studied together, we didn’t always speak, but it never felt like silence. When she looked at me, it was like she saw something I hadn’t figured out about myself yet.

Sometimes I caught her glancing at me when she thought I wasn’t looking. And sometimes, more than I liked to admit, I looked at her when I knew she wasn’t looking back.

There was a strangeness between us, not uncomfortable, but charged. Like a string stretched between two fingers - taut, invisible, waiting for someone to pluck it.

I spent long hours in the ceramics studio, shaping my thoughts into objects. For Hannah, I made a mug - round and soft, the color of honey. I carved a swirl around the rim and glazed it in a warm amber that reminded me of the way she looked when she laughed with her whole face.

She’d been laughing more recently. Despite the storm and the lockdown and the fact that we wouldn’t be home for Christmas. She was happy all the time. Hugging me when we passed in the hallway. Curling beside me on the couch, humming songs while knitting.

I didn’t understand it, but didn’t question it either.

For Arthur, I made a chessboard and chess pieces. Clay, fired and glazed in the dark greens and blacks of his favorite scarf. The lines were uneven, but I liked that. He always said imperfection was the soul of humor. I imagined him laughing when he saw it, and that made it easier to sand down the edges.

Making gifts was a kind of meditation. As my fingers pressed and smoothed and scored, I thought about how much had changed. I had come to P. College quiet, unsure of myself. I hadn’t known how to make eye contact with anyone the first week. I kept my hands in my pockets, my voice low, afraid of saying the wrong thing.

And now I had people. A strange, beautiful group of people who somehow became mine.

Hannah, who brought light into every conversation. Nicole, who saw things in silence, the way I did. Maria, grounded and smart. Arthur, always ready with a joke. August, quieter than the rest, but thoughtful in ways I was only beginning to understand. Abraham, who had a kindness about him that didn’t need explanation.

I didn't feel estranged anymore, didn't want to fall asleep for a year. My classmates had become my second family, and as I worked, my chest swelled with quiet joy.

Then I tried something new.

One of the studio professors introduced me to silver clay - soft like porcelain, but after firing, it hardened into pure metal. I hadn’t worked with silver before, but it felt natural. Like pressing light into shape.

For Nicole, I made earrings.

Two long ovals, curved slightly inward, like the shape of an eyelid or a pressed petal. I etched the inside and filled it with green and yellow enamel. The green of her eyes. The yellow of her hair in the sun.

I thought about her the whole time.

The way she played with her hair when reading, winding strands around her finger without realizing. The way she’d lean her shoulder into mine when we walked, just for a moment. The sound of her laughter when it came unguarded, which was rare. The color of her eyes - bright green in sunlight, forest green in dim light, and almost golden when we were studying in candle light.

When I finally came back to our room that evening, my hands smelled of metal and glaze and my head buzzed with unspoken thoughts. I pushed open the door and froze.

Hannah was curled in her bed, knitting. She jumped when she saw me. I saw the scarf in her lap before she could hide it.

It was deep blue. Nearly black.

“Oh,” I said, setting down my bag. “That’s not for August, is it?”

She hesitated. Then shook her head.

“No,” she said softly.

“You’re still making the gloves for him, right?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t press. But the scarf wasn’t for me - I wasn't a particular fan of scarves, nor such dark colors in clothes, and she knew that.

“So... who’s it for?” I asked, keeping my tone gentle.

She hesitated again. Then she smiled, small and shy.

“You know,” she whispered.

“Professor T.?”

She nodded.

There was a long pause.

“I just.... I wanted to say thank you,” she said. “He’s been so nice to me this semester. Always kind. Always interested in what I have to say. He treats me like an adult, like someone whose thoughts matter.”

I sat down on the edge of my bed, facing her.

“He is nice,” I said carefully. “And he does seem to think highly of you.”

Her eyes searched mine. “Do you think it’s weird?”

I paused. “No,” I said. “I think it’s kind. You’re giving him a gift. That’s all.”

She smiled, visibly relieved.

“But just be careful, okay?” I added.

Her face tensed a little. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I just...” I searched for the right words. “You matter. And I don’t want anyone to misunderstand your kindness and hurt you.”

She looked down at the scarf again, her fingers tightening around the needles.

“He’s not like that,” she said quietly. “He’s different.”