There you are

I’m standing outside the lecture hall, waiting for an exam and laughing with one of my male friends.

Normally, this wouldn’t mean anything.

I have male friends. I’ve had boyfriends too. I’m not some sheltered girl who thinks every man who speaks to her is flirting.

If anything, I’m the opposite.

I’ve always been proud. Maybe too proud.

I don’t like showing people how I feel, especially men. I don’t like unnecessary touching either. If someone gets too comfortable and puts a hand on me for no reason, even a close friend, I have no problem looking them straight in the eye and asking what exactly they think they’re doing.

But today is different.

Alfie is around.

My first boyfriend.

My only real ex-boyfriend.

And because I’ve already seen him somewhere nearby, apparently I’ve decided that subtlety is no longer part of my personality.

My friend says something stupid, laughs, and reaches out to touch my chin.

“Aww, Judith.”

On any other day, I would probably pull my face away and tell him not to do that.

Instead, I laugh.

Not normally, either.

I laugh as though he has just said something unbearably charming. As though the two of us are sharing some private little moment that anyone watching might easily mistake for flirting.

It’s ridiculous.

And completely intentional.

That’s when I notice him.

He’s standing maybe three steps away from me, slightly to the side.

Watching.

Every time I laugh, he smiles.

Not discreetly.

He is actually watching me and smiling like he finds the whole thing entertaining.

Then he says, “Hi.”

Just like that.

I turn toward him.

I’m usually even less forgiving with men I don’t know. A stranger trying to get my attention normally has very little chance of receiving anything warmer than a blank stare.

But Alfie is still somewhere around here.

So apparently I’m performing today.

“Hi,” I say, letting a little flirtation slip deliberately into my voice. Then I tilt my head. “But I don’t know you.”

His smile widens.

“I’m Elijah. We’re in the same department. I’m two years below you.”

“Oh.”

I make the sound as though this is fascinating information.

It isn’t.

At least, I don’t think it is.

Then, for the first time, I actually look at him.

Not as some random younger student trying to talk to me.

As a man.

And—

Oh.

He’s attractive.

Very attractive, actually.

His eyes catch my attention first. They aren’t quite dark brown, but they aren’t light either. They sit somewhere in between, a strange shade I can’t immediately name.

His hair is black. Not simply dark.

Black enough to make his skin look almost impossibly pale beside it.

The contrast is beautiful.

His eyebrows are shaped neatly too. He clearly takes care of himself.

And he’s tall.

At least compared to me.

I’m only around five-foot-four, and I’ve never been particularly good at guessing anyone else’s height, but I have to look noticeably upward when I meet his eyes.

For a few seconds, I forget I’m supposed to be having a conversation.

Then I pull myself out of my thoughts.

“Nice to meet you.”

I start to walk away.

“Wait.”

I turn.

“You didn’t tell me your name.”

I almost smile.

“Judith.”

Then, before he can say anything else, I add, “But I have to go.”

And just like that, I leave him standing there.

A few minutes later, while I’m walking away, my phone vibrates.

Instagram.

A follow request.

I look at the name.

Elijah.

I stop walking for half a second.

How did he find me?

More importantly—

How did he find my surname?

I should probably find it strange.

Maybe even a little creepy.

Instead, something embarrassingly pleased settles inside me.

He looked for me.

He actually took the time to find me.

My ego enjoys that far more than it should.

Then another notification appears.

A message.

Something about how nice it was to meet me.

Then another line.

And another.

I barely read the rest.

I’ll answer later, I decide.

Because there is already someone else.

A very handsome guy I’ve been talking to recently.

I don’t have particularly strong feelings for him, but that almost seems irrelevant. He exists. We flirt. We message each other.

And I’m loyal by nature, even before there is technically anything to be loyal to.

If I’m considering something romantic with one person, I don’t talk to three others at the same time just to keep my options open.

One person is enough.

If I decide I don’t want him, I end it first.

Then I move on.

So Elijah waits.

Hours, sometimes.

When I finally reply, my messages are short.

His aren’t.

Elijah writes as though each Instagram message has been assigned a minimum word count.

Long paragraphs.

Questions.

Stories.

More paragraphs.

I give him two sentences.

He gives me a novel.

At first, it amuses me.

Then I start wondering how long he’ll keep trying.

Apparently, the answer is about two weeks.

Eventually, the messages stop.

Neither of us makes a dramatic exit.

There is no argument.

No goodbye.

We simply stop talking.

And then, somehow, we forget each other.

Mostly.

We still follow each other.

Seven months later, I graduate.

I start a new job and move back to my hometown.

Life changes quickly enough that the boy outside the lecture hall becomes little more than a vague memory attached to an Instagram account I never bothered to unfollow.

Until one afternoon, when I’m scrolling aimlessly and his profile appears.

I tap it.

There’s a photograph of Elijah with a woman.

The caption says:

Ma mère.

I don’t speak much French, but I know enough to understand that it means my mother.

Except I don’t register that immediately.

The woman looks so much like one of my close friends that I take the phone straight to my mother.

“Doesn’t she look exactly like her?”

My mother studies the picture for a moment.

Then she gives me a look.

“Judith, that cannot be your friend. That woman is much older.”

I look at the photograph again.

Right.

Of course.

His mother.

I laugh at myself and, without thinking too much about it, tap the heart beneath the photo.

Nothing happens.

A little disappointing.

Not that I was expecting anything.

Obviously.

A while later, I like another one of his pictures.

And this time—

a notification appears.

Elijah has liked one of mine.

I stare at it.

Then I smile.

I like another photograph of his.

Almost immediately, he likes another one of mine.

One from me.

One from him.

Back and forth.

Like neither of us is willing to be the first person to actually say hello.

And somehow, seven months after we forgot each other-we begin again.

I wait for him to message me.

After all, he has just spent the evening liking my pictures almost as quickly as I like his.

Surely this is going somewhere.

It doesn’t.

The night passes without a single message from Elijah.