We’ve shared the same classroom for three years, but I’ve never spoken more than ten words to you at once. I sit in the back, take notes, pass you your graded papers with a silent smile. You don’t know that I’ve memorized your schedule, that I time my library visits to coincide with yours.

Today, you stayed late. The rain started suddenly, heavy monsoon drops slamming against the windows. Everyone else left. Now it’s just us.

You turn to me, shaking out your umbrella. 'Need a ride home?'

My breath catches. My heart hammers so loud I’m sure you can hear it. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.

You step closer. 'You always help me. Let me help you for once.'

I clutch my books tighter, knuckles white. My lips part—finally—'I... I don’t want to be a burden.'

You tilt your head. 'Kanchan. Look at me.'

My eyes rise, trembling, meeting yours. I’m so afraid. So desperate. So close to breaking.