With Him

The first time I noticed him, it was raining. Not the gentle kind of rain that makes you want to hum old love songs and sip coffee by the window. It was the heavy, stubborn kind that flooded streets, soaked through umbrellas, and made everyone curse under their breath. The sky had turned a deep, bruised gray, and the campus pathways were glistening mirrors reflecting hurried footsteps. I had forgotten my umbrella. Of course I had. Standing beneath the narrow overhang of the Humanities Building, I hugged my books to my chest and debated whether pride or pneumonia would win the day. My best friend, Lianne, had already sprinted through the rain with a shriek and a laugh, promising to save me a seat in Literature class. “Come on, Mara!” she had yelled. “It’s just water!” Easy for her to say. She grew up swimming in rivers. I, on the other hand, valued dry hair and dignity. The rain only grew stronger. I sighed, bracing myself to run. “Wait.” The voice came from my left—low, calm, and unexpectedly close. I turned. He was standing just inside the doorway, half-hidden by shadow. Tall. Dark hair slightly messy, like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. He wore a plain black jacket and carried a navy umbrella loosely at his side. His eyes met mine. And something in my chest shifted. “You’ll get soaked,” he said, stepping forward. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried. Steady. Assured. “I’m heading that way.” I blinked. “Oh. I—I don’t want to trouble you.” “It’s not trouble.” He opened the umbrella. It was a simple gesture, but the way he did it—careful, almost thoughtful—felt strangely intimate. For a second, I considered refusing. I didn’t even know his name. But another crash of thunder decided for me. “Okay,” I said softly. We stepped into the rain together. The umbrella wasn’t small, but standing that close to a stranger made it feel smaller. Our shoulders nearly brushed. I became painfully aware of everything—his height beside me, the faint scent of soap and something clean, the quiet rhythm of his breathing. “Literature?” he asked. “Yes.” “Same.” That surprised me. I’d never seen him before. “I’m Mara,” I offered. He glanced down at me, and there it was—a small smile. Not wide. Not dramatic. Just enough to soften his serious expression. “Adrian.” Adrian. The name lingered in my mind like the last note of a song. We walked in silence after that, the rain drumming against the umbrella. It wasn’t awkward exactly, but it wasn’t comfortable either. It felt… charged. Like something unspoken hovered between us. When we reached the classroom building, he held the door open. “Thanks,” I said. He nodded once, then slipped inside ahead of me. And that should have been the end of it. But it wasn’t. --- The classroom buzzed with noise—students shaking off rain, gossiping, complaining. Lianne waved wildly from the third row. “Mara! Over here!” I hurried to her, heart still beating faster than it should. “Who was that?” she whispered immediately, eyes sparkling. “Tall, mysterious umbrella boy?” “I don’t know,” I murmured, pretending to focus on arranging my books. “His name is Adrian.” “Oh, you talked.” “It was just polite conversation.” “Sure,” she said, drawing the word out. Before I could argue, our professor entered, and the room quieted. “Good morning, class. I hope the rain didn’t wash away your enthusiasm for poetry.” Groans and laughter followed. As the lecture began, I tried to concentrate. I really did. But halfway through a discussion about romantic symbolism, I felt it. That strange awareness. Like someone was looking at me. I glanced toward the back of the room. There he was. Adrian sat by the window, the rain tracing faint lines down the glass behind him. He wasn’t slouching like most of the others. He sat straight, one arm resting on the desk, pen poised above his notebook. And his eyes— They were on me. Not in a creepy way. Not bold or intrusive. Just… watching. Our gazes locked. For a heartbeat, everything else blurred—the professor’s voice, the shuffle of papers, the sound of rain. Then he looked away. My stomach flipped. I turned back to the front, cheeks warm. “What?” Lianne whispered. “Nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing. Not at all. --- Over the next week, I started noticing him everywhere. In the library, seated at the far corner table with a stack of books and headphones resting around his neck. In the cafeteria, alone but not lonely, quietly eating while reading something on his phone. In the courtyard, leaning against a tree, eyes closed as if listening to the wind. He wasn’t loud. He didn’t laugh easily like the other boys. He didn’t try to impress anyone. There was something steady about him—like he existed on a slightly calmer frequency than the rest of us. And for reasons I couldn’t explain, that calm drew me in. On Thursday afternoon, fate—or perhaps the universe’s twisted sense of humor—placed us side by side again. Group project. Of course. Our professor had assigned partners randomly. “Adrian and Mara.” The room felt suddenly smaller. I slowly turned in my seat. He met my eyes. That faint smile again. “Looks like we’re working together,” he said. “Looks like it.” Lianne mouthed I approve from across the room. I ignored her. --- We decided to meet in the library the next day. I arrived early, nerves buzzing under my skin. I told myself it was just a project. Just research. Just a grade. But when he walked in—wearing a gray hoodie this time, hair slightly damp from what must have been another unexpected drizzle—my breath caught. “Hey,” he said. “Hi.” We sat across from each other. For a few minutes, we focused on the assignment—an analysis of romantic themes in modern literature. The irony wasn’t lost on me. But slowly, conversation drifted. “You’re always early to class,” he observed. “I like being prepared.” “You take notes in different colors.” I blinked. “You noticed that?” He shrugged lightly. “I notice things.” There was something in the way he said it. Not boastful. Just honest. “Why Literature?” he asked. I hesitated. Most people expected a dramatic answer—passion, dreams of writing novels, love for poetry. But the truth was simpler. “It makes me feel less alone,” I admitted. “Reading other people’s stories. It reminds me that someone else has felt what I’m feeling.” He watched me carefully. “That makes sense,” he said softly. “And you?” “Same.” The word hung between us. Same. For the first time, I felt the edges of my nervousness soften. We worked for nearly two hours, exchanging ideas, debating interpretations. He challenged my opinions—not dismissively, but thoughtfully. And when I disagreed, he listened. Really listened. It felt rare. When we finally packed up, the sun had dipped low outside the windows. “I’ll walk you,” he said casually. “You don’t have to.” “I know.” That simple reply made my heart skip. We stepped outside. The air smelled fresh after rain. “Do you live on campus?” he asked. “Nearby. Five-minute walk.” “Good.” “Good?” He hesitated. “Safer.” I looked at him. Was he always this… protective? We walked slowly, conversation easy now. He told me he liked old films. I told him I loved late-night rainstorms. He admitted he hated crowded places. I confessed I did too. By the time we reached my street, I didn’t want the walk to end. “Well,” I said awkwardly, stopping in front of my gate. “Thanks. For the umbrella. And the project help. And… walking me.” “Anytime.” The word settled deep inside me. Anytime. He didn’t move immediately. Neither did I. The air felt charged again, like that first rainy day. “I’ll see you Monday,” he said finally. “Yeah.” He turned to leave, hands in his pockets. “Adrian?” I called. He glanced back. “Thanks,” I repeated. His expression softened. “You don’t have to thank me for small things.” Maybe not. But they didn’t feel small. Not when they were with him. --- That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay staring at the ceiling, replaying every conversation. Every glance. Every almost-smile. It was ridiculous. I barely knew him. But something about Adrian felt different. Not like a crush built on loud charm or dramatic gestures. It was quieter than that. Steadier. Like standing near a calm ocean and realizing you don’t want to leave the shore. The next few weeks blurred into a rhythm. We met for project discussions that slowly turned into coffee breaks. Coffee breaks that turned into long walks around campus. Walks that turned into sitting side by side on library steps, talking about nothing and everything. He told me about his younger sister who lived with his mother in another city. I told him about my father’s habit of overwatering plants until they drowned. He didn’t laugh loudly. But when he did laugh, it was genuine—eyes crinkling slightly, voice low and warm. And every time he walked me home, he waited until I was safely inside before leaving. Lianne noticed everything. “You like him,” she said one afternoon, arms crossed. “I do not.” “You look at your phone like it holds the secrets of the universe whenever he texts.” I flushed. “It’s normal.” “Mara,” she said gently, “it’s okay to like someone.” I knew that. What scared me wasn’t liking him. It was how much I was starting to need him. --- One evening, as we sat under the large acacia tree near campus, the sky painted in soft pink and gold, he seemed quieter than usual. “You okay?” I asked. “Yeah.” “You don’t sound convinced.” He stared at the horizon. “Do you ever feel like you’re waiting for something?” he asked. “For what?” “I don’t know. Just… something.” I considered that. “Sometimes,” I admitted. “Like my life is about to change. But it hasn’t yet.” He looked at me then—really looked. “What if it already has?” My breath caught. “What do you mean?” He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached out slowly and brushed a stray strand of hair from my face. The touch was soft. Barely there. But electricity surged through me. “Mara,” he said quietly. And the way he said my name— Like it meant something. Like I meant something. “I—” he started. Then his phone buzzed. The spell shattered. He glanced at the screen, expression tightening for just a second before smoothing over. “Sorry. I have to take this.” He stepped away. I watched him, confusion flickering in my chest. When he returned, something had shifted. “I need to go,” he said. “Now?” “Yeah. Family stuff.” “Oh. Okay.” He hesitated, like he wanted to say more. Then he didn’t. “I’ll text you.” “Okay.” And just like that, he was gone. I sat there long after the sky turned dark. The wind rustled through the leaves. And for the first time since that rainy day— I felt unsure. --- The next morning, there was no text. By afternoon, still nothing. I told myself not to overthink it. He said family stuff. That could mean anything. But when two days passed without a word, anxiety began to creep in. I typed and deleted messages more times than I could count. Are you okay? Did I do something wrong? Just checking in. Each one felt too desperate. On the third day, I finally sent: Hey. I hope everything’s okay. The reply came hours later. Yeah. Just busy. Sorry. That was it. No smile. No warmth. Just busy. Something twisted inside me. When Monday arrived, I spotted him in class immediately. He looked the same. But not. Distant. He didn’t meet my eyes. After class, I approached him. “Adrian.” He paused. “Hey.” “Are you okay?” “I told you. Just busy.” “With what?” He exhaled slowly. “Things.” I stared at him. “You can talk to me.” His jaw tightened. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.” The words felt like a wall. “I want to,” I said softly. He looked at me then—really looked. And for a moment, I saw it. Fear. “Mara,” he said quietly, “maybe we should just focus on school.” My heart dropped. “What?” “I don’t want to complicate things.” “Complicate what?” He didn’t answer. Silence stretched between us, heavy and unbearable. “I thought—” I began, voice trembling slightly. “I thought we were—” “So did I,” he cut in gently. The words hurt more than if he’d shouted. “So did I.” “Then why?” I whispered. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration flickering across his face. “You deserve someone who’s not… dealing with this.” “Dealing with what?” He didn’t respond. Instead, he stepped back. “I’m sorry.” And just like that— He walked away. Leaving me standing there. Alone. --- That night, I cried. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just quietly, into my pillow. Because somewhere between umbrellas and library tables and sunset conversations— I had fallen. And I hadn’t even realized how far. But even through the ache, one thought kept repeating in my mind: This isn’t over. Because the way he looked at me— The way he said my name— The way his hand trembled slightly when he stepped away— That wasn’t indifference. That was someone fighting something. And maybe— Just maybe— He was fighting for me. Or against himself. Either way— I wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet. Not when it came to him.