I stood there dumbfounded, watching the scene, like something inside me had been ripped open.
I’d known from the moment I agreed to help him pursue my roommate that something like this could happen, but seeing it play out in front of me still shocked me—still hurt more than I could bear.
They were kissing with such focus they didn’t even notice someone standing behind them.
"Want to come over tonight?"
Ethan’s voice sounded rough and frighteningly low in the quiet night.
My heart dropped with that line, like it had been hurled into an ice pit and frozen solid.
So they’d gotten this far already?
My roommate gave him a playful nudge and laughed, "What are you thinking? I promised Gracie I’d help her with her thesis tonight!"
They pressed their foreheads together and talked a little more—intimate, warm—even from across the hall I could see how close they were.
After watching her walk upstairs, Ethan turned and finally saw me.
"Grace?"
He wiped the smile off his face.
I stiffened and turned my head away, not daring to look at him. I clenched my feelings down and forced myself back toward the dorm.
The image I’d just seen hit me so hard. Wave after wave of sourness and injustice flooded my chest until I could barely breathe.
I’d been in Ethan’s life as a friend for ten years. He’d never shown anyone fake niceties. With me he’d always been cool, rational.
So rational, sometimes I wondered if to him I wasn’t even clearly a girl—just an old playmate.
What I’d seen moments ago was the first time I’d watched him truly look moved.
And they’d only known each other ten days.
Ten days.
But I’d harbored a crush on Ethan for ten years—nearly my entire youth.
I’d bombed the college entrance exams and couldn’t go to the same school as him. I repeated a year, finally got in, then messed up my preferences and had to move to another city.
Through college we barely kept in touch.
Now he’d just started his career, I was drowning in my thesis, so our contact grew even scarcer.
Whenever I tried to reach out, he’d decline without hesitation. "Grace, I’m busy."
Sometimes I’d call him on video and before we’d said much he’d be off again.
I knew I had no right to complain. In his mind I was just a longtime friend.
Then, ten days ago, my roommate borrowed my phone to take a picture and accidentally scrolled through my album until she landed on Ethan’s photo.
Her finger paused. She smiled. "This guy’s cute. Grace, do you know him?"
I saw the interest in her eyes. I made a weak excuse and left.
Even though logic told me they’d probably never cross paths, that night I still couldn’t sleep.
A tidal wave of panic almost swallowed me.
My roommate had a reputation at Riverside College—everyone called her a goddess. Her face was striking, a mix of innocence and danger, and she’d caused a stir when she arrived.
But she played it cool with everyone—hot and cold, hard to win over. Not many people caught her eye in four years.
So I’d never expected her to get interested in Ethan just from a photo.
Even less expected, when I finally psyched myself up to confess, that Ethan—cold and distant as ever—would, over a video call, fall head over heels for my roommate through the phone.
I remember how bright his eyes were, how his face softened like some sharp edge had been hidden, as though only one person existed in them.
I recognized that look: love at first sight.
The next day he called me, asking me to help him chase my roommate.
His voice was the same low, pleasant tone. "I’ve never liked someone like this before, Gracie. Please."
It was the first time he’d ever begged me for anything, and the first time he’d called me Gracie.
But there was no real pleading in it—he sounded like he was already sure I wouldn’t refuse.
With me, he always had the upper hand.
Realizing that made the bitterness and heaviness spread through me.
What could I do? I couldn’t stop him from liking someone else any more than I could stop myself from loving him.
Like someone hypnotized, I agreed. I agreed to be the ridiculous matchmaker.
After that, things happened naturally. Because of me, they added each other on WeChat and chatted till midnight.
The guy who always told me he was busy took three days off just to meet my roommate. Today was their first official meeting.
But judging by what I’d seen, they were already clinging to each other.
When she pushed open the dorm door, my roommate called out, "Gracie, we’re together."
"That’s… great."
I replied softly, pretending indifference as I sat down and opened my laptop to edit my thesis. It took me several tries just to type a single "I" correctly.
She laughed. "All thanks to you, the great matchmaker."
My fingers tightened on the keyboard and my heart spasmed. My fingertips trembled.
Yes—they were together because of me.
I’d told Ethan every little thing my roommate liked. I’d coached him on what topics to bring up.
I’d told my roommate that Ethan had never been with anyone else, that he was devoted only to her.
For ten days I watched Ethan fuss over my roommate, watched my roommate light up when she talked about him, watched them fall in love piece by piece.
Often at night I buried my face in the covers and still heard his voice from her phone: "Be good, don’t stay up late. Goodnight."
Muffled laughter, a low, sexy cadence.
A tenderness and flirtation I’d never had.
At that moment I knew I regretted it.
I even thought, what if I’d lied—said someone else already had my roommate’s heart—knowing Ethan’s pride, he might’ve given up. Maybe then I’d have a chance…
"To thank you—"
My roommate had stepped up behind me without my noticing, wrapping her arm around my shoulders, pulling me out of my thoughts.
"Tomorrow Ethan and I want to treat you to dinner, Gracie. You won’t refuse, right?"
My throat tightened and I reflexively wanted to say no.
She didn’t give me a chance. "Ethan goes back to the firm the day after tomorrow. Once I get my diploma next month, I’ll move in with him. After this dinner, the three of us probably won’t see each other much."
She buried her head in my neck and nuzzled me like a spoiled child, warm breath against my skin. Her tone was soft and casual. "Gracie, that’s his idea too."
If I’d still harbored a sliver of hope last night, that hope was gone now. I finally understood what Ethan was doing.
At the hotpot place near campus, the broth bubbled and steamed.
Ethan was peeling shrimp for my roommate.
He bowed his head slightly, his long fingers neat and efficient as he removed heads and tails—every movement deliberate.
I remembered Ethan’s cleanliness fetish—how he hated the slimy, sticky feel when peeling shrimp; it made him feel nauseous.
Last year for his birthday I’d traveled four hours, bought a cake, clumsily cooked a full table of food, and even burned my hand.
When Ethan saw the red swelling, his gaze was complicated. "Grace, if you can’t cook, you don’t have to."
Before I could protest, he grabbed my hand and applied ointment to my burn, carefully dressing it.
He’d been unexpectedly gentle with me that day; I was both dazed and awkward.
Looking at the plate of boiled shrimp, on impulse I asked, "My hand’s not great. Could you peel the shrimp for me later?"
Ethan frowned and refused immediately, even sounding a little reproachful. "Grace, you know I have a thing about cleanliness."
Just like that the mood shifted.
In the past I might’ve let it slide, but that day I felt unbearable resentment and cried without control.
In the end, ignoring my injured hand’s sting, I finished peeling the entire plate of shrimp myself.
Ethan watched in silence, several times wanting to speak but saying nothing.
I pulled myself back from memory and saw him set the peeled shrimp where my roommate could reach them, wipe his hands with a wet napkin, and then slowly look at me.
When his gaze met mine, I realized the truth.
He’d done it on purpose.
That little scar from being burned had been a barrier between us. Now Ethan was tearing it open, rubbing salt onto the raw wound, doing it to make me give up.
He’d known all along how I felt. He knew I wasn’t just a friend.
He brought me to dinner and peeled shrimp for my roommate right in front of me.
He was telling me—don’t be delusional. Don’t interfere with my life.
A sharp pain tightened somewhere in my chest. I dropped my eyes and avoided his stare. My hand holding the chopsticks trembled.
The meal dragged on forever. No matter how they showed off their affection, I kept my head down and hardly spoke—until the noise above us made me look up.
A boy, face flushed, was apologizing to Ethan. Their table had been playing truth-or-dare. The loser had to add the prettiest girl present on WeChat; he hadn’t known my roommate had a boyfriend.
Ethan’s expression darkened, but he couldn’t make a scene in public.
The boy, feeling guilty, mumbled more apologies and slunk away.
I turned to my roommate.
She loved hotpot but wasn’t great with spice. Her cheeks were flushed, beads of sweat on her forehead, lips bright and inviting. A few guys nearby still watched her with obvious interest.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught a tall, well-built figure walking slowly this way.
My lips twitched. Something in me untangled.
Youth gives you courage—you learn from your mistakes but still want to try your luck again.
I glanced at Ethan, whose expression had clouded.
Curious, I set down my chopsticks and leaned back, ready to watch.
Then I saw the guy, when he was barely three feet from my roommate, take a long stride past her and walk straight up to me.
I jumped.
The boy stared straight at me, eyes bright, a little flustered on his face, but his smile was clean. "Grace, would you… would you go out with me?"
I froze for a moment and instinctively glanced at Ethan.
Maybe it was my imagination, but his expression seemed even colder than before.
For a second, many thoughts and images flashed through my head.
In this ten-year one-sided pursuit, I hadn’t never wavered completely.
I had seen how Ethan rejected girls who confessed to him—so decisive and blunt that he left almost no room for sentiment. So I held my love for him close, silent and patient, willingly playing the role of his gentle, considerate friend.
But ardor with no response met only his coldness and restraint.
Over time, the pain and exhaustion of wanting what I couldn’t have almost crushed me.
When I learned we hadn’t gotten into the same university, the long-suppressed emotions reached a breaking point and for the first time I thought about giving up.
He didn’t show up at the going-away dinner.
At the end of the night, a guy classmate confessed to me. I turned him down; he looked disappointed but still insisted on walking me home.
I thought about it—going to my place would pass by Ethan’s house—and without quite knowing why, I agreed.
The moon that night was beautiful. The classmate walked beside me, trying every topic he could find.
I answered each thing earnestly until that familiar gate came into view.
I stopped short and looked up—and there stood Ethan on the balcony, watching us coldly.
Back home, after my shower and while scrolling on my phone in bed, I discovered someone had recorded the classmate’s confession and posted the video in the class group chat.
The audio was noisy and indistinct; the clip ended with the two of us leaving the private room together.
Those who’d skipped the dinner started teasing in the group.
Then I got a message from Ethan: "Do you want to repeat the year?"
I immediately understood the other meaning behind his words—he wanted us to go to the same university.
Even though he never said it outright, to me that was his signal.
My heart felt like it had been rained on after a drought, but it also ached.
He always seemed to do this: after I accumulated disappointment bit by bit, he would give me hope.
So now—he had a girlfriend and seemed determined to put distance between us with this meal—what did his look mean this time?
When Quiet Crushes Catch Fire
Thinking this, my breath faltered. I tried to read his expression more closely, but my roommate stepped in and blocked part of my view, and then took his hand, fingers interlocking.
Ethan looked startled for a second, then lowered his head to her. His whole face softened.
In that instant, I realized the last tiny scrap of hope inside me had been utterly destroyed.
Strangely, my heart was calmer than it had ever been.
I dropped my eyes and pulled my gaze away, landing on the boy across from me.
Caught off guard, he met my eyes and grew even more nervous, stammering the question again, "Grace, would you… would you go out with me?"
The onlookers burst into laughter.
He still seemed unaware.
A smiling acquaintance called out, "Noah, you're the one confessing—how are you letting someone chase you?"
He stared at me blankly, as if finally coming to a realization; his face flushed all the way to his ears. "I-I…"
"Yes."
I cut him off.
This time I didn't look to see Ethan's reaction.
Amid the clamor, I watched Noah quietly and saw his Adam's apple bob; the red at his ears spread down his neck.
I smiled and couldn't help repeating, "Yes."
…I noticed Noah really was the most easily-flushed person I'd ever seen.
After I said "yes," Noah, face red enough to bleed, grabbed me without waiting and led me away. He took me to a nearby dessert shop and ordered several sweets, piling them in front of me.
Under my astonished look, he dropped his eyes and gripped his spoon so tightly his knuckles showed white.
After a while he lifted his head and smiled with a shy curve, "I saw you barely eat at the hotpot place. They say desserts make people feel better."
I looked at him.
Suddenly I realized that at that dinner I couldn't wait to leave, there had been someone nearby quietly paying attention to me.
He saw my unspoken awkwardness and humiliation, saw the loneliness I tried to hide, and he helped me escape.
Something inside me moved.
Dessert does lift the mood—my whole day felt better.
In the evening Noah and I walked the track together. The wind tugged our clothes, and layers of sunset painted the clouds in fire. Noah gently took my hand.
I tilted my head and could only see the clean line of his cheek and his ear tips flushed by the sunset.
The good mood lasted until Ethan messaged asking where I was.
I didn't reply.
He didn't ask again.
I exhaled deeply, as if trying to breathe out years of pent-up frustration.
Noah and I stayed out late and didn't get back to Lark Hall until quite late. After washing up I revised my thesis, formatted it, and sent it to Professor Allen before I finally opened my phone.
At 11 p.m. Noah messaged asking if I had plans for tomorrow.
After a moment's hesitation I wrote back, "I'm free tomorrow."
He quickly replied, "Okay, good night."
I blinked, glanced at the time—3 a.m.
I stared at his message for a while and then, smiling to myself, drank a glass of milk and went to sleep. I noticed my roommate's bed was empty and neatly made. She wasn't back for the night.
The next morning I slept until ten, washed up and put on makeup. While applying the final layer of lipstick I heard a key in the lock.
My roommate was home.
I looked at myself in the mirror—calm eyes, steady features, no tremor at all.
Last time I saw them kiss it had felt like my chest was torn apart and recombined, bones ground down and put back. But last night, knowing they might be doing more intimate things, I felt only a bit of sharp soreness; the imagined, ripping pain never came. I fell asleep quickly and dreamlessly.
I didn't know if that meant I'd finally let Ethan go, but it felt like a good start.
I dabbed my lips to even out the color. My roommate's voice, tired, came from behind me. "He left for the office."
I turned and saw her pale and worn out.
I reached out as if to feel her forehead, but she turned away from my touch. "I'm fine."
My brow knit.
She stared at me and, voice rough, said, "We slept together."
I looked at her and said nothing.
After a long silence her face shifted into a complex expression. "Gracie, could you and Noah—?"
I was silent, genuinely considering the possibility. After a moment I met her gaze and smiled. "Yes."
My roommate blinked; the heaviness in her eyes eased into relief.
When I went downstairs, Noah was waiting by the dorm entrance holding soy milk and buns in one hand and a bowl of porridge in the other. Broad-shouldered and long-legged, he stood there like a poster boy—no wonder the other girls noticed.
I walked up. "How long have you been here?"
Noah's long lashes lowered; he flushed. "Not long."
Then he quickly added, "I bought two breakfasts—you pick, I'll eat the other."
I glanced and said, "I want the porridge."
I paused after saying it.
Noah froze too, his heated gaze fixed on me. His Adam's apple rolled and his face went even redder.
…I didn't expect Noah to take me to the aquarium.
The lights were dim, with fake seaweed and coral lining the walkway and fish lingering near the tunnel like curious spectators.
I tapped the tank glass and a tiny transparent jellyfish drifted away; I couldn't help but smile.
I turned to talk to Noah and saw him holding up his phone, taking my picture.
I raised an eyebrow and moved closer. "Let me see."
The photo was a half-body shot: a girl in a white dress with pale, luminous skin at collarbone and shoulder, blue water behind her; a few stray hairs lifted, the kind of beautiful, natural mess that looked effortless.
Clearly the photographer had a good eye—the lighting and angle were excellent.
I turned to him and started, "So you're good at—"
My words stopped.
Noah's eyes were deep and very close.
Close enough that I could feel the tension in his body, the warmth of his breath, and the faint, pleasant scent he wore.
Suddenly my face felt hot and my breath quickened.
Around six-thirty we took the bus back to campus with the windows open and the wind whipping past our ears.
My mind kept flicking back to the moment he almost brushed his lips against mine but held back. He'd been slightly breathless and he'd told me seriously that he could wait.
I couldn't help turning to look. Noah sat up straight, upright and composed—such a gentlemanly posture.
I'd checked the school forum last night to look up his name and had found several confession posts and detailed write-ups about him—what competitions he'd joined, what awards he'd won.
After watching him for a while I couldn't help asking, "Why do you like me?"
Noah didn't expect the question and blinked.
I held his gaze and bit my lip. "You're outstanding. Why would you like me?"
His good brows knit into a look I had never seen before—serious, taut. "Grace, why would you think that?"
I didn't answer.
Noah pressed his lips together for a long moment, then sighed. "The first time I saw you wasn't at the hotpot place; it was at the aquarium."
I was taken aback. "The aquarium?"
He said, "Mm," then lowered his voice. "You were holding two candied hawthorns and seemed to be waiting for someone."
I watched your expression shift from hopeful to disappointed, my eyes burning, but I forced myself to hold it together.
Until a little girl accidentally bumped into you. She clutched her nose and wailed in pain. You crouched down, flustered, fumbling for tissues to wipe her tears. As you dabbed at her face, your own tears began to fall.
There you were—both of you crying and passing tissues back and forth. When you ran out of energy, you each took a skewer of candied hawthorn and shared it.
The image of you then—
Noah paused, something flashing across his face, and he blushed. “So pitiful, and so cute.”
I dropped my eyes; a strange heat flushed my cheeks.
I remembered then that Ethan had happened to be on a business trip nearby at the time. He promised he’d make time to take me to the aquarium the day he finished work.
I waited for him with so much joy, and what I got was a message breaking his promise: “Sorry, I overslept. Afraid I’ll miss the express train. I’m leaving now.”
Ethan never rearranged his plans for me.
I looked up at Noah, and I couldn’t believe he’d known me since then.
Noah met my gaze calmly, his eyes soft. “Later, the college hosted a lecture series. I saw you speak on stage and realized you were a year ahead of me—Grace Harper from the Finance Department.”
…By the time I got back to Lark Hall it was past nine. The lights were off; everything was dark. Maya seemed to have gone to bed extra early today.
I didn’t turn the lights on either. I closed my eyes and buried my face in my pillow, the emotions churning so hard I could barely control them.
Only today did I realize that all these years chasing Ethan had been rooted in my own insecurity.
Even when I did everything right, his coldness, the way he ignored me, his casual teasing—each time it left me worn down. I kept doubting and denying myself, cocooning inward so tightly I couldn’t see a sliver of light.
I never expected someone named Noah to come along and, with gentle seriousness, tell me, “You’re great. Why can’t I like you?”
Something inside me felt scalded, and then, slowly, warmth began to spread.
I took a deep breath, sat up, and posted to my Moments: “You’re great, too,” and used the photo Noah had taken today.
A few seconds later Ethan messaged: “You took him to that aquarium?”
Then another: “You’re with him?”
Those messages were accusatory—maybe even a little jealous.
My heart skipped.
The next second he called.
Seeing that number—so familiar, so ingrained in me—made me frown.
Before, even the vaguest text from him would make me happy all day. Now, the fact that he was calling made me want to avoid him.
It felt like I’d lost interest in even speaking to him.
I stared at the number for a few seconds, then silently lowered my eyes and hit decline.
He called a few more times; I hung up without hesitation each time.
After a few rounds I grew impatient and typed, “I’m at the dorm; your girlfriend is asleep.”
That line seemed to flip a switch—Ethan finally quieted down.
After that, Noah and I grew closer.
We ate together every day, studied in the library, walked the Riverside Track, and went to new movies. We became comfortable in silence but had plenty to say when we talked.
Our relationship stayed like a thin sheet of paper across a window—untouched, fragile.
Meanwhile, something seemed off between Ethan and Maya. I hardly ever saw them call each other. The clinginess they once had had ebbed away like a retreating tide.
Maya acted like everything was fine, laughing and chatting, but on several late nights I heard her stifled sobs.
I guessed it had something to do with me.
After hesitating, I took Ethan off my block list and called him.
He picked up quickly. His voice was a bit hoarse and my rehearsed lines died in my throat.
“You finally pick up, Gracie,” he said.
I felt disoriented. I’d said that to him a lot in the past.
But back then my tone was timid and desperate, like I’d dug my pride and dignity out of me piece by piece and ground them into dust, humbling myself to nothing.
Luckily, someone had shown up to pull me out of that.
Noah’s gentle face flashed in my mind and I couldn’t help the small curl of a smile.
“…Gracie, are you listening?” Ethan’s voice was raspier.
I refocused. “…What did you just say?”
Silence on the other end.
I thought for a moment, then said calmly, “Ethan Carter, I liked you for ten years.”
A heavy breath came through. After a pause he said, “I know.”
Even though I’d already suspected it, hearing it admitted out loud made my chest ache as if something blunt had pierced me.
Not because of him, but because ten years of my secret had been so miserable, almost ridiculous.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself. “But after that dinner, I realized I don’t like you anymore. I only wish you well now, and someone appeared in my life who I want to hold onto.”
I sighed. “Ethan, we should both cherish the people we have.”
He was quiet longer this time.
Just when I thought he wouldn’t speak, he asked in a tone that sounded both certain and relieved, “Grace—are you with him just to get back at me?”
His question clogged me. Not with guilt, not because he’d seen through me, but with a sour, angry feeling.
Ten years of my humiliation had made it seem obvious to him that I’d fake a relationship just to spite him?
I cut him off and blacklisted him again, but it left me grumpy.
That night, Noah and I had just seen a movie. We were almost at Lark Hall when that question flashed through my mind again. I stumbled over a stone and nearly fell, my knee buckling—but a pair of hands steadied me.
Noah’s worried face met mine and I gave a small smile.
Then a sharp jolt shot up my ankle, and I gasped.
“Twisted it?” Noah’s brow knit.
I nodded. He guided me to a bench and began to check my ankle.
“Lucky, it’s not dislocated. Let me rub it, Senior Grace.”
Before I could respond, a cool touch brushed my ankle. He cradled it, fingers gentle and rhythmic as he massaged. A faint tingle ran through me and I let out a short “ah.”
Noah paused, and from my view his Adam’s apple bobbed. Heat crept up my face.
Slowly the pain eased. I heard him ask softly, “Still hurts?”
“N-no…” My throat sounded a little hoarse.
He smiled and set my foot down, looking up at me. Moonlight made his eyes dark, his nose sharp, his lips a soft red. He held my gaze steadily.
A thought popped into my head.
Oh no.
Before I knew who moved first, my arms were around his neck; his hand settled on my waist.
It was our first kiss.
I didn’t know how long we stayed like that. When he pulled back slightly he was breathing hard, his look on my face so hot it felt like he might melt me.
“Gracie—” His whisper snapped something in my chest.
I parted my lips to speak, but a large hand grabbed my arm and yanked me off the bench. Pain flared and I cried out.
I turned and met a pair of glaring, bloodshot eyes.
To be honest, I was a little surprised to see Ethan. Especially seeing his face so pale, shock and fury written all over it, as if I’d done something unforgivable.
It felt absurd. He’d gotten used to my unchanging devotion for ten years, used to my silent giving without asking for anything back. Now that I wouldn’t grovel and my eyes stopped looking at him, he was upset.
What was worse, he could treat me with indifference but couldn’t tolerate me moving on.
He looked like he couldn’t stand to see me happy.
He tightened his grip on my arm and it hurt. My skin reddened where he held me. I tried to move, but he squeezed harder, leaving no room to break free.
He stared at me for a long time, then swiveled his gaze and glared at Noah, something fierce and consuming in his eyes.
I stepped slightly to shield Noah.
Ethan froze a moment, then his eyes grew redder. After staring at me a long while he rasped, “Grace, we’ve known each other ten years. How long have you known him? Already defending him?”
I looked at him coolly. “Noah is my boyfriend.”
Ethan went rigid.
I watched his lips go pale and reminded him, “You’re hurting my arm.”
He seemed to come to his senses and slowly loosened his hold.
The moment he let go, I lost my footing and pitched forward, landing in Noah’s arms.
A searing pain shot through my ankle. I glanced down at the swelling and realized that Ethan’s yank from the bench had probably dislocated it after all.
For a second I wanted to laugh, and then I did.
Ethan looked at my ankle and something like helplessness crossed his face. After a long beat he muttered, “…Sorry.”
I didn’t want to deal with him. I tugged at Noah’s sleeve. “Take me to the hospital.”
Noah crouched and said, “I’ll carry you.”
I was about to climb onto his back when a hand shot out—and then stopped, fingers trembling—hovering only millimeters from my wrist.
I looked up into Ethan’s eyes. For once his usual coldness looked stunned and lost.
After a moment he withdrew his hand and said hoarsely, “Gracie, I’ll drive you to the hospital.”
I politely refused right away. "No need, thank you."
Then I leaned against Noah's shoulder and wrapped my arms around his neck so he could carry me.
At the corner I glanced at Ethan.
He stood there in a white shirt and black slacks, motionless, watching us. Tall and straight-backed, yet there's a hollowed loneliness about him.
We took a cab to the nearby hospital. The doctor set my bones back in place, prescribed some circulation-and-bruising medicine, and glanced over me and Noah with a neutral expression, warning me to rest for the next two weeks and avoid strenuous movement.
My face was flushed from the taxi ride.
I rested my cheek against Noah's back, feeling his warmth. I heard him say, "Grace, for now, move into the place I'm renting."
The doctor's words flashed through my mind and my heart beat fast. "Uh—what? Move in with you?"
Noah's steps hesitated. He smiled gently. "I mean, your dorm is on the fourth floor and you can't climb stairs with that injury. My place has an elevator and it's decent. Move in with me and I can take care of you during the day. As for at night—"
He let out a low laugh. "I'll move back to the dorm."
My face burned instantly. I murmured a soft "okay."
We reached Lark Hall around eleven-thirty; I didn't expect Ethan to still be there.
When he saw me he opened his mouth like he wanted to say something. I frowned and turned away.
As we passed him, Noah suddenly said, "Grace, pack a few simple clothes tonight. I have the rest at my place. I'll pick you up tomorrow morning."
I tilted my face and saw Ethan's body give a sharp shudder.
"Okay," I said.
My roommate didn't seem shocked that I was moving to Noah's rental. She just smiled. "Noah is a good person."
I watched her regain some color and asked, "You and—"
"We broke up."
She seemed to know what I was about to ask. Her voice was calm; her expression didn't change. "After that night, when he called you thirteen times, I decided I didn't love him anymore. The next day I broke up with him."
I was stunned. "How did you know…?"
I hadn't answered any of the calls.
She pressed her lips together. "I accidentally saw that you set a 'love story' ringtone just for him."
I was silent.
She smiled. "That ringtone never rang again. You must've changed it or blocked him."
I nodded. That night I not only blocked him, I’d changed the ringtone to 'goaway.'
My roommate studied my face for a long beat, then sighed softly. "Gracie, he didn't deserve my love, and he doesn't deserve yours either."
…
I have to admit, Noah really knows how to take care of someone—at least he knows how to take care of me.
In the little over half a month I stayed at his place, my days were consumed with prepping for the graduation defense, playing video games, and eating the meals Noah cooked. I gained a few pounds.
I put the mirror down with exaggerated indignation and looked at Noah, who was peeling an orange for me.
He's been running back and forth between here and the dorm these days; he looks thinner, his features more defined, somehow more handsome.
I blinked, lunged forward, and buried my face in Noah's chest. I mumbled, "When my foot's fully healed, I'm going to go on a diet!"
Noah smiled without answering and fed me a slice of orange.
A sudden downpour started that night. As Noah grabbed his umbrella to head out, I closed my eyes and whispered, "Don't go back tonight, okay?"
He stared at me for a while. When I didn't add any more pleading, he tightened his grip on the umbrella and, voice husky, said, "Okay."
Around midnight, a muted thunderclap woke me. I turned and Noah was still asleep, breathing deeply.
I almost smiled and was about to go back to sleep when I noticed the window wasn't fully shut. The drizzle from outside was drifting in.
A while back Noah had ordered a protective shoe online because he worried I'd bump it. My injury wasn't severe anymore, though—after these two weeks it had mostly healed—so I could walk a few steps without the boot.
I put on my nightdress and went to close the window. Accidentally, I glanced down and saw a familiar figure.
My hand froze.
Night was deep and dark. In the soft streetlight I could see his pale face and the small glow between his fingers—he was smoking.
I'd liked Ethan for ten years and knew he generally didn't smoke. He only did it when he was restless—angriest. Lately I'd been seeing him near my place every weekend; he seemed idle enough to make me wonder if he'd lost his job.
I knew Ethan had noticed me too.
But I didn't want to look again. I shut the window, drew the curtains, and slowly walked back to the living room to get a glass of water.
Then I heard the phone on the table ring. It was an unknown number.
I hesitated, sighed, and answered.
His voice was low and rough, threaded with restraint and bewilderment. He didn't say anything meaningful—just repeated my name, over and over, "Gracie… Gracie…"
A sudden sadness washed over me—not pity, not anger, but a dryness in my chest that only the word "sad" could hold.
I thought of the lyric from "love story": "Cause we were both young when I first saw you."
When I first saw him, both of us were young. I was captivated by that aloof, taciturn boy and would pretend to pass his classroom just to see him. I studied obsessively, memorizing vocabulary day and night to get into his class.
Back then I didn't need an outcome; just seeing him from afar made me happy.
Later I became cautious and anxious, worshiping him like a deity.
He neither rejected me nor drew near.
Gradually I realized his hurt equalled the wonder and strength he'd once given me.
Now, in this moment as he kept calling my name, all the feelings I once had for him vanished like mist.
I heard my own voice say, "Ethan, I used to… really, really like you."
"But now, I really, really don't love you anymore."
After I hung up I lay back down. Suddenly an arm slid around my waist and pulled me close; my head rested against his chest.
"There's a new chain fish-noodle place downstairs. They say it's a decade-old shop, tastes great, and has tons of regulars. Want to try it for breakfast tomorrow?"
Noah sounded calm, but I heard a hint of sharpness beneath it.
I raised an eyebrow and blurted, "No, no, no!"
He paused, then ruffled my hair. "What, you don't like fish noodles?"
I looked up, looped my arm around his neck, and suppressed a laugh. "No, I don't. I like porridge!"
