I would choose you

Late night talks

The days had begun to fold into each other.

Mornings arrived with pale light and clattering radiator pipes. I would wake to the sound of Hannah humming as she braided her hair, or the smell of coffee from down the hall. We dressed in layers - wool tights, old sweaters, thick socks. By the time we crossed the quad to class, the frost had already begun to settle on the grass like a veil.

We sat through long lectures in dim rooms. Philosophy with Professor M. still felt like a prolonged exercise in patience. She spoke slowly, like each word had to pass through several planes of reality before it reached us. Some days I managed to write full pages of notes. Other days, I drew little moons and spirals in the margins and wondered whether I’d ever understand what the point was.

History of Aesthetics was taught in the museum wing by Professor F., a man who wore scarves as if he were allergic to bare skin and spoke exclusively in metaphors. Once, when describing a Romantic painting of a woman at a window, he told us: “This is not a woman. This is yearning itself, incarnate. The window is not a window - it is the edge of the known.”

I wrote that one down. Not because I agreed, but because it was the only sentence that had kept me awake that day.

Between classes, we ate in the dining hall. The food was warm but forgettable. The company less so. I began to learn the habits of the others. Violet only stayed for half the meal, always citing an appointment or an errand. Arthur was the funny one and tried to charm everyone. Maria took notes even during lunch. August seemed to drift through it all, quiet but amused.

And Nicole. Nicole always seemed to sit across from me.

Always.

October slipped by like a whispered warning. The trees had nearly lost all their leaves. The fog never lifted before midday. The nights crept in earlier, and the air smelled like damp stone and woodsmoke.

That night, Hannah made hot chocolate.

“Come on,” she said, setting down two mismatched mugs on our desk. “We’ve earned it. No library tonight.”

The room was warm. She’d lit a small candle on the windowsill, and it flickered against the frost-coated glass. We’d both caught up on our reading, there were no essays due. The weight of the week hung heavy but soft around us, like a blanket.

I curled up on my bed, the mug warming my hands. Hannah sat cross-legged across from me, steam curling into her curls.

“We’re doing well, aren’t we?” she said. “I mean... in class.”

“Exceptionally,” I said. “We’re both destined for literary greatness.”

She laughed, then grew quiet. A thoughtful sort of quiet.

After a pause, she asked, “What do you think of Professor T.?”

I looked up. “As a professor?”

“Yeah.”

I shrugged. “He’s perfect. Challenging. Charismatic. His lectures actually make me think.”

Hannah nodded slowly. “And as a person?”

I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Just... as a person.”

“I don’t know him like that. He seems nice. A bit dramatic, maybe. But in a good way.”

She hesitated again. Then, very quietly: “He asked me to come in for a private lesson.”

That got my attention. I sat up straighter. “On what?”

“Romanticism and the Erotic Gaze.”

I blinked. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

I stared at her. Her cheeks were pink, but not from the heat of the drink.

“Hannah,” I said, slowly. “It’s probably just academic. You’ve been really active in class. Maybe he just wants to talk more in-depth.”

“I thought that at first,” she admitted. “But the way he said it... I don’t know. It felt different. Like a date.”

“It’s not a date.”

“I know.”

“There are strict rules about professors dating students. He could lose his job.”

“I know.”

“Do you... want it to be a date?”

She looked down at her mug. “I don’t know.”

I didn’t press her. Instead, I took a long sip of hot chocolate. It was rich, slightly bitter, but comforting. The silence stretched between us, thick but not heavy.

Then she asked, “What about you?”

I looked up. “What about me?”

“Nicole.”

I nearly choked.

“She’s the only person you actively avoid,” Hannah said, gently. “Why?”

I opened my mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

“I don’t avoid her.”

“You do.”

“I just... she annoys me, that's all.”

Hannah waited.

“She’s unreadable,” I said finally. “She never says what she means. She’s smart, and she knows it. She's always so quiet. And she dresses like she walked out of a magazine. And her handwriting is perfect. And she’s always so composed. Like nothing ever touches her.”

Hannah chuckled. “Sylvia.”

“What?”

“That sounds a lot like a crush.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s not a crush. I like boys. I’ve only ever liked boys.”

“Sure,” she said, sipping from her mug. “But you just described her in more detail than you’ve ever described anyone.”

“She’s just annoying. That’s all.”

“She’s not annoying. She’s fascinating.”

“Same thing.”

Hannah smiled. “You admire her.”

I didn’t respond.

“And maybe,” she added, “you want her to admire you back.”

I stared at the candlelight flickering on the wall.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said eventually. “Even if I did, which I don’t, it’s not safe.”

Hannah’s expression shifted. Something in her eyes darkened, just for a moment.

“I heard a story,” she said. “From an upperclassman. Last year, two boys in the philosophy program started dating. They weren’t hiding it. Just holding hands. Sitting close.”

I nodded slowly.

“There’s an old professor in their department. He failed both of them that semester. No explanation. They’d both been A-students.”

My stomach turned.

“This place is beautiful,” Hannah said. “But it’s not kind.”

I didn’t know what to say.

So I said, “It doesn’t matter. I don’t have a crush on her.”

“Okay,” Hannah said. “If you say so.”

We finished our hot chocolate in silence. The candle burned lower. Outside, the fog pressed up against the window like it was trying to listen in.

Eventually, we turned off the lights and climbed into bed.

Hannah fell asleep almost instantly, her breathing soft and even. I lay on my side, staring into the dark.

I thought about Nicole.

Her hair, the color of morning light. Her green eyes. The way she tilted her head when she was thinking. The freckles scattered across her cheeks like stars.

I thought about her hands, long and pale. Her voice when she read aloud. The curve of her lips when she smiled.

I thought about how I always knew where she was in a room. Even when I wasn’t looking.

Maybe I did admire her. Maybe I wanted her to see me. To really see me.

But that didn’t mean anything.

Admiration wasn’t love.

Wanting to understand someone wasn’t the same as wanting to touch them.

I didn’t have a crush on her.

Of course I didn’t.

I just couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I closed my eyes.

Outside, the wind rustled the bare trees.