Back home, she shut herself in her room with her mind still crowded with thoughts. She opened her books, seeking refuge in studying: exams were getting closer and, at least there, everything still had a comprehensible order.
The following day the university was crossed by a subtle but palpable tension. Some were frantically reviewing in the corridors, some were planning study sessions, some had already declared themselves doomed with dramatic resignation. Despite everything, classes began as usual.
He was, as always, at the back of the room. Sitting slightly tilted in his chair, his gaze lost somewhere between the ceiling and his own thoughts, he gave the impression of being distant from everything. And yet, as always, he was listening.
Halfway through the lesson the professor asked a question.
"This formula…"
Silence.
"…derives from which step?"
No name called.
No direct glance.
But he answered.
"From the second transformation of the initial equation."
The professor turned, surprised. "Correct."
Someone in the class murmured, someone else turned around. He didn't even look up. She stared at him for a moment, then went back to writing.
The lessons ended in a tired murmur: chairs scraping, books closing, sighs of relief and complaints about upcoming exams. He was still sitting in his spot, at the back, his gaze low on his notebook. He seemed distant from everything, as if the rest of the class were just background noise.
She, while gathering her things with her friends, glanced at him for an instant. The scene from a moment ago had stayed with her: the perfect answer given to the professor without even hesitating, without even really lifting himself from that silent world of his.
A small group of students approached him. They laughed quietly, with that air halfway between friendly and forced.
"Hey…" one of them said. "You were great earlier. Want to study with us for the exam?"
He looked up. He didn't seem annoyed. He didn't seem interested.
"No."
A single word. Flat. Final.
The silence that followed was brief but heavy.
"Ah… ok…"
"Whatever…"
Nervous laughs. The group moved away quickly, as if repelled by something invisible.
She had watched the whole scene and, for some reason, it didn't seem like arrogance to her. It seemed like… a closed door.
She rejoined her friends and they decided to meet in the afternoon to study together at a café near the university.
In the corridor there was more confusion than usual: students pouring out of classrooms, overlapping voices, backpacks bumping into each other. She was talking with a friend while walking backwards.
"No seriously, if I don't pass—"
Her foot caught on something. She lost her balance. Her body went backwards.
A hand grabbed her arm.
Firm. Impact avoided.
She blinked, still tilted backwards.
Him. Behind her.
He was holding her for a second too long.
She straightened up immediately. "—did you do that on purpose to look cool?"
He let go. "If you fell you'd get hurt."
Flat voice. Simple. Like saying: it's raining.
She stayed quiet for half a second, then exhaled softly. "You could've just let me fall."
"No."
And he walked away.
She followed him with her eyes, still slightly flushed for no precise reason.
The café near the university was as full as always in the afternoon: tables taken by students, open books, cups of coffee gone cold. She was sitting with her friends, surrounded by notes and coloured highlights.
"If I don't pass, I'm dropping out."
"I'm already done for."
"I didn't understand half the syllabus."
She was listening, but not really.
The café door opened. He walked in, as always alone, book under his arm and neutral gaze. He chose the most side table, almost hidden. He sat down. Opened the book. That was it.
She noticed him immediately. She didn't even know why.
A few minutes later the door opened again. The bullied boy walked in. He looked around hesitantly, saw him, and went directly to that table.
"Can I…?"
"Yes."
He sat down.
No surprise. No questions. Just two people sharing the same space in silence.
A small crease appeared between her eyebrows. Why him yes… and the others no? Then she shook her head and went back to the formulas.
The days passed quickly, marked by pages and schedules always the same: dense notes, uncapped highlighters, diagrams rewritten three times to make them stick, cups of coffee left half-finished beside notebooks. She studied wherever she could find a space: at her desk at home, bent over pages until she lost track of time; at the long tables of the library, among the rustle of other people's pages; at the café near the university, with the constant murmur that became background noise.
Sometimes the words slipped away. Then she'd start over: reread, repeat aloud in a low voice. In the evenings she'd come home with a heavy head and dry eyes. She'd sit on the bed "just for a moment" to check one last note… and often found herself lying on top of open books, still dressed, the light on until late into the night.
He remained an intermittent presence at the edges of the day: a door opening, footsteps in the corridor, water running in the kitchen. Nothing more.
The house was silent that evening. Only the rustle of pages and the light tapping of her pen broke the still air. She had been sitting at her desk for hours: open books, scattered notes, uncapped highlighters. Concepts she would normally connect without difficulty, but not that evening.
She reread the same line for the fourth time. Nothing.
She let herself drop against the backrest, massaging her temple.
At that moment she heard a noise from the kitchen: the coffee machine, a drawer, a glass set down on the counter. Him.
She hesitated only a moment, then stood up. She opened the door and looked into the corridor. He was in the kitchen, his back to her, cup in hand.
"Sorry."
He turned.
"I can't figure something out."
Silence. No question, no particular expression. He set down the cup. He followed her.
He walked into her room without hesitation, as if it were normal.
She went back to the desk, slightly stiff. "Here…" she said, pointing at the notebook. "I don't understand the connection."
He came closer. Too close. He leaned slightly over her to see the page better. His face just a few centimetres from hers.
The sudden closeness.
She flushed and stiffened slightly in her chair. She shifted a few centimetres to make room for him.
He was only looking at the page. "You skipped the conceptual step." He pointed to a line. "Here you need to connect this to this."
His voice was low, flat, normal.
She nodded immediately. "Yes— yes, I understand."
He looked up for a moment. Their eyes met. No reaction. He straightened up.
"It's logical."
He turned. He left. The door closed softly.
She stayed still in her chair for a second, still slightly flushed from the sudden closeness. Then she lowered her gaze to the notebook and went back to studying.
Two days later she was still at her books when her friends surrounded her.
"Enough."
"You're going crazy."
"We're going out."
"Just one hour!"
"No, I have to—"
"We're going out."
They dragged her away.
The town centre was full of the light noise of the afternoon: lit shop windows, soft music from the stores, rustling shopping bags. She walked with her friends, pulled from one shop to the next.
She laughed, tried things on, came out of the changing room, went back in. Light. Without thoughts.
When they came out of yet another shop, one of her friends pointed further ahead. "Wait, I want to go in there."
A bookshop.
They went in. Her friends scattered among the shelves. She stayed near the entrance for a moment… then she saw him.
He was at the far end, in the side aisle, in front of the innermost shelf. He was reading the spines of the books one by one: slow, selective. He picked one up, opened it, flicked through a few pages. Expression unchanged. He wasn't looking for something specific: he was evaluating.
She stayed watching him for a few seconds. He was… normal. Different from university. Different from home. Just a person in a bookshop.
A friend came up beside her. "Found anything?"
She looked away. "Not yet."
When she looked again, he was already further along the shelves.
The day of the exam arrived almost without her noticing. The room was already full when she walked in: rows of separated desks, papers turned face down, pens lined up with excessive care, a heavy silence broken only by coughs and chairs scraping softly.
She sat down. Set her bag on the floor. Her hands felt slightly cold.
In front of her, the paper still face down. Behind her, someone was whispering formulas at the last second.
The professor spoke: instructions, time, submission.
"You may begin."
The paper turned over.
For a moment she saw only black: lines, numbers, words. Then her brain latched onto the first exercise. Familiar.
Her breathing steadied. She began to write.
The rest of the world disappeared: only the sound of pen on paper, the rustle of pages, time passing without weight.
When she reached the last question she hesitated for a second. Then she remembered the passage she'd studied the evening before. She wrote. She handed it in.
Walking out of the room, the air in the corridor felt suddenly lighter. Her shoulders dropped a few centimetres.
It was done.
The days after the exams slipped by slow and light, as if someone had suddenly turned down the volume on the world. No more formulas to repeat while walking, no more pages to memorise before sleeping. Her head finally empty in that rare way that only comes after a long effort.
The university seemed like a different place: no more tension in the corridors, no books clutched to chests, no desperate looks before classrooms. Just relaxed groups, laughter, improvised plans.
"I'm sleeping for two days."
"I'm going out tonight."
"I don't want to see a book until next month."
She walked beside her friends, finally light. The exams had gone well. Not perfectly. But well. And for now that was enough.
At the exit of the building she saw him.
He was nearby, standing under the shelter. Backpack on one shoulder, neutral gaze. The bullied boy was beside him. They were talking — or rather, the boy was talking quietly, showing something on his phone. He was listening. He nodded once. Said something brief.
The boy smiled. A small smile, but real.
She slowed down without realising it. It was strange seeing him like that: not different, but… in someone's presence.
A friend pulled her by the arm. "Hey, coming?"
She looked away. "Yes."
When she turned again, they were already heading in the opposite direction.
That evening, at home, she turned on the TV. Light romantic film, popcorn, blanket over her legs. A few minutes later he came into the living room. He sat in the armchair, as always. Looked at the screen.
Silence.
"Come on, this scene is cute," she said.
"It's illogical."
"What do you mean, illogical?"
"They talked for two minutes." Pause. "And they're already in love."
She huffed. "It's a film."
"Exactly."
Silence.
Then she laughed softly to herself.
In the days that followed the university changed: paper hearts, ribbons, pink posters. Valentine's Day approaching. The corridor was half empty; afternoon classes hadn't started yet and the vending machine had become their fixed point. She was leaning against the wall with her cup of tea, the others sitting on the windowsill.
"Oh girls—" said Marta. "Valentine's Day is like three days away."
"Anxiety."
"Tragedy."
"I don't exist."
They laughed.
"No but not for boys," Marta continued. "Just between us. Like homemade chocolates. Cute."
"Yes," said Chiara. "For friends too. I'd even make them for my brother if needed."
"Me too," said Giulia. "That way it's not cringe."
"It's still cringe."
More laughter.
"But let's make them together, right?"
"Yeah, let's."
Pause.
"My place is impossible," said Chiara. "My mum takes over."
"I've got my grandparents over."
"I've got the dog who eats everything."
Brief silence. The glances shifted to her.
She understood immediately. "…no."
Said automatically, almost before they even spoke.
"Pleease."
"But why?"
"Your place is perfect."
"I don't know if it's okay."
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"Do you have flatmates?"
"No— I mean—" she stopped. "It's not that."
"Then?"
She lowered her gaze into her cup. Two seconds. "…fine."
The others: "YES."
"But only afternoon," she added immediately. "Not evening."
"That's fine."
"Tomorrow?"
"No wait — the day after."
"Ok the day after."
"Perfect."
It was already decided. She nodded.
But in her head: They're coming to my place. They'll see that I live with him.
An almost invisible grimace. It's not that I care, obviously. I mean — it's not that. It's just that they don't know. That's all.
"Hey what's wrong?" asked Marta.
"Nothing."
She drank her now-cold tea.
Out of university, the afternoon air had a light warmth that already smelled of late winter. The streets were fuller than usual: decorated shop windows, red ribbons, hearts hanging from nearly invisible threads.
Valentine's Day was everywhere, even for those not looking for it.
She walked with her backpack on one shoulder, without hurrying.
In front of a patisserie she slowed just slightly.
The window was full of elegant boxes, chocolates arranged in perfect rows, packages with exaggerated bows.
A couple stopped beside her.
He pointed at something behind the glass.
She laughed.
They took each other's hand without thinking.
She looked away almost immediately and kept walking.
She had never been particularly interested in it.
Valentine's Day had always been one of those slightly constructed occasions, more noise than feeling.
In middle school it meant anonymous notes.
In high school, embarrassing roses handed out in class.
At university, full restaurant tables and stories on social media.
Nothing that had ever really concerned her.
And yet that year it was different, for one small and unavoidable detail.
She lived with him.
The thought arrived without warning, sharp.
She stopped for a second at a traffic light.
She lived with him.
And Valentine's Day was coming.
It wasn't a romantic thing.
She didn't even think it for a single instant.
It was just… social logic.
Cohabitation.
Politeness.
If you make chocolates for everyone…
and he lives with you…
not giving him any would be strange?
The light turned green.
She crossed.
But giving them to him would be even stranger.
She imagined it for a second: her handing him a little box.
"For Valentine's Day."
No.
Absolutely not.
Just the image alone made heat rise behind her ears.
They weren't friends.
They were nothing.
They only shared a space and parallel silences.
And yet…
If he saw that she gave them to her friends?
Or that she'd made them?
And nothing for him?
Rude?
She furrowed her brow slightly as she walked.
But if you give them to him… it looks like you want…
No.
She exhaled softly to herself.
It was ridiculous.
It was just a stupid holiday.
There was no reason to think about it.
And yet the thought came back again, stubborn, as she passed another window full of paper hearts.
Maybe something neutral.
Not "for Valentine's Day."
Just… chocolates.
Generic.
Like leaving something on the kitchen table.
Yes, but that was strange too.
Why would she leave him sweets?
She never did.
She never left him anything.
They never left each other anything.
That was exactly the problem: anything would be a change.
And every change, with him, seemed amplified.
She breathed in slowly.
Maybe the simplest solution was to do nothing.
Exactly as always.
No exceptions.
No gesture.
No possible interpretation.
Yes.
Better that way.
When she got home she had already decided she would do absolutely nothing different from usual.
And yet, as she put the key in the lock, the thought passed through her one more time, quick and silent:
If I gave them to him… what would he say?
She shook her head slightly and went in.
That evening, at home, she stopped in front of his door with her hand raised in the air. She hesitated a second, then knocked.
Opened it.
"Ehm… Saturday…"
Silence.
"My friends are coming over."
"Ok."
Pause.
"So…"
"I won't be here."
"Oh."
She blinked. "Ok."
She closed the door.
Laughter filled the living room, light and overlapping, bouncing off the walls as if the space were too small to hold all of it. On the table the baking paper was scattered in crumpled sheets, some stained with chocolate, others folded in half and abandoned to one side. The sweet warm scent of melted cocoa hung in the air, mixed with the more buttery smell of the batter and the faint hint of vanilla rising from the still-dirty bowl. The girls' fingers were sticky, marked by brown streaks; some were distractedly licking their fingertips, others looking for a tissue without finding one.
The heart-shaped moulds were scattered everywhere: some already filled and lined up in a row, others empty, others still upside down beside the baking tray. On the counter the chocolate dripped slowly from the spoon, forming irregular drops that nobody really bothered to clean up. The living room, normally tidy, had taken on a chaotic and lively air: chairs shifted, bags open, packets of coloured sprinkles left without their lids.
"Come on, let's hurry or we'll never finish," she said, clapping her hands, trying to bring at least some order to the sweet little disaster they had created.
"You're the one who makes them perfect."
"Exactly, so help me."
Her friends laughed, some raising their sticky hands in surrender, others trying clumsily to imitate her precise way of filling the moulds without letting the chocolate spill over.
Time slipped by in chatter, stolen tastes and small mistakes corrected at the last second. After an hour, finally, the chocolates were lined up: irregular but full rows, shiny hearts solidifying on the baking paper, some decorated, others left plain.
"Ok," one of the girls stretched, raising her arms above her head and letting out a satisfied sigh. "Now, house tour."
"What?"
"Your room."
"There's nothing—"
Too late. The door opened.
Her room: bright, tidy, full of clothes and accessories.
"Kyaaa, so cute."
"It's so you."
She smiled, slightly tense.
Then one of her friends pointed down the corridor. "And that one?"
Silence for half a second.
"…"
The door was opened.
Neutral room. Bare. Essential. Boxing bag. Wraps. Books. Manga. Gloves.
"Oh."
"…"
"You live with someone?"
She didn't answer immediately. Then—
On the shelf, a figurine. Light hair. Smile. Party dress.
"Oh."
One of her friends picked it up. "She looks like you."
Silence.
"Like when you were dressed up at the party."
She looked at it. Her chest gave a sharp knock. "…mhm."
At that moment—
click.
The front door.
Everyone turned.
Footsteps. Slow. Normal. Indifferent.
He appeared in the corridor: gym bag on his shoulder, dark hoodie, flat gaze. He stopped. He saw the girls.
No reaction.
Just one second of silence.
The friends' eyes went wide. "Wha—" "Who—"
Her, frozen.
He wasn't supposed to come back.
Her breath stopped.
Total silence.