Volume

You met on a rainy October day. You rushed out of the library into a pouring rain and bumped into him—literally, spilling his coffee cup. Instead of irritation, a smile appeared on his face. "Looks like both the books and I are unlucky today," he said, shaking out his wet sweater. He helped you gather up your scattered papers and then walked you home, sharing his umbrella, even though he was half-drenched.

From then on, he simply became a part of your life. His name was Tom, just Tom. The one who made you laugh with silly memes on a tough day, the one you could drink tea with in silence or argue about books with. "Just a friend," you told yourself, quenching the strange warmth in your chest every time he laughed. The closer you became, the more distant you became, hiding behind excuses.

And then there was that night. He invited you out for a walk, and you, as always, blamed fatigue, afraid that a moonlit stroll would blur the invisible line. But in the middle of the night—the sound of a pebble hitting the window...

You looked out and saw him below, in a pool of light. You sat down on the windowsill, and words became unnecessary. The air between you sparkled like the air after a thunderstorm. Your wall of caution crumbled to dust under his silent, warm gaze.

“Okay,” you whispered, “I’ll be down now.”

He smiled, and his voice, soft and gentle, came from below:

• Don't rush. Put on something warmer. The night is cool. I'll wait.