You said my name.

  You didn’t ask for it, didn’t demand it—you invited it. And then you gave it back to me like it was yours to keep.

  “Kellan.”

  The way it left your mouth—careful, slow, with that sharp inhale at the end, like it surprised you—it was art. That one word was the entire darkroom process condensed into a syllable. Light. Exposure. Chemical bloom. You didn’t even realize what you were developing.

  But I did.

  That’s the part I can’t get out of my head.

  I walk the three blocks back to my apartment in silence, not because I’m tired, but because I want to hear it again. That voice. The rain has stopped but the gutters are still overflowing, and everything smells like oil and memory. That’s the smell of something beginning.

  I’ve played it right so far. I’ve kept the distance respectful. I’ve given you space like a good frame around a photo—room to breathe, to exist, to not feel cornered.

  But now you’ve spoken me into existence.

  And that means it’s time to move.

  Not fast. Not loud.

  Strategically.

  The next morning, you don’t go to Glasslight. That’s fine. I expected that. You’re careful. You don’t want to seem eager. You don’t know that I’m not looking for eagerness. I’m looking for signs. Micro-movements. Flinches.

  You spend the morning writing.

  I know this because I’m sitting across from you in the café on Kenmore and Fifth. The one with the velvet armchairs and loose espresso grounds always stuck to the bottoms of their cups. You used to come here before Chase. You stopped for a while. But you’re back now.

  That tells me something.

  Your notebook’s on the table, spine cracked. You’re scribbling with your left hand curled around the page like a barrier, as if someone might lean over and read your soul.

  I could.

  But I won’t.

  Not yet.

  Instead, I sip bad coffee and pretend to answer emails while watching you underline words hard enough to tear the paper.

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  You’re working through something. Grief? Guilt? Lust you wish you didn’t still feel for someone who doesn’t deserve it?

  Whatever it is, you’re alone with it. And you don’t want to be.

  Not really.

  You leave after 48 minutes.

  You don’t look up.

  That’s okay. You’re in it now. You’re inside yourself. Which means I need to find the next frame to step into.

  That’s when I see it.

  The flyer.

  Stuck to the bulletin board outside the bookstore. Poetry night. Local readers. Free entry. Open mic after.

  Thursday.

  I don’t even need to check.

  You’ll go.

  Of course you will.

  Not because you’re ready to write again—but because you want to remember what it felt like to want to.

  Thursday comes.

  You dress like someone trying not to dress for anything. Jeans that don’t try too hard. A blue shirt that fits you like a sigh. You carry that same goddamn tote bag, and I wonder if you even realize how often you hold it like a shield.

  You show up ten minutes late.

  Classic.

  You hate being the first one in a room. You like slipping into things already in motion—less pressure, less spotlight. But you always sit in the back, which means you still want to see.

  I sit four rows ahead.

  You don’t notice me right away.

  But I know the moment you do.

  It’s not dramatic. No gasp, no pause. Just a little shift. A change in your breathing. The way your ankle uncrosses and recrosses. The way your hand goes still over your notebook.

  You’re wondering: Is this coincidence?

  And you don’t want to ask.

  Because part of you wants it to be fate.

  The reading is dull. Half-formed metaphors, political angst with no rhythm, a guy in a beanie who talks about his mother like he’s auditioning for trauma. You don’t clap much. You never clap out of obligation.

  That’s another reason I like you.

  When it’s over, you don’t rush out.

  You linger.

  You touch the spines of books you’ve already read. You pick one up—Night Sky with Exit Wounds—then put it down. You don’t want anyone to think you’re here to buy something. You want to look like you belong in this room, but not to it.

  I wait until the crowd thins.

  Then I step into your periphery.

  You see me.

  And you choose not to look away.

  That’s the moment.

  That’s when I know.

  “Twice in a week,” you say. “That’s got to be illegal.”

  I say, “Guess the universe is a repeat offender.”

  And you laugh.

  God, Marin.

  Your laugh.

  It’s not loud. It’s not theatrical. But it’s honest. And you haven’t given that to anyone else since I’ve known you.

  You let me walk you home.

  I don’t ask.

  You don’t explain.

  It just happens.

  We don’t talk much on the walk.

  We don’t have to.

  Your steps fall in rhythm with mine. You’re holding your bag tighter than you need to. Not because you’re nervous. Because you’re overthinking. You’re telling yourself not to fall for this. For me.

  That’s fine.

  I don’t want you to fall.

  I want you to step.

  Deliberate.

  Willing.

  You pause at your door.

  This time, you don’t rush.

  You hold the keys like you forgot what they’re for. You look at me like there’s a sentence forming in your throat, one you’re not ready to speak.

  I don’t touch you.

  But I look at you.

  I let the moment breathe.

  You say, “Goodnight, Kellan.”

  And the way you say it?

  It’s full.

  Not empty. Not polite.

  Full.

  And I say, “Goodnight, Marin.”

  I leave before you go inside.

  Because that’s how you win the long game.

  You leave them wanting more.