You met Sylvia in college, the kind of encounter that could have been insignificant if not for the way her voice carried. It wasn't the words—though they were clever—but how she spoke, as if every syllable were a secret only a chosen few deserved to know. You sat two rows behind her in the lecture hall, pretending not to watch her tug her hair behind her ear while scribbling frantic notes.

For weeks, you exchanged polite nods in the library, brief conversations about books and assignments. Then, one day, you found her crying behind the English department, cigarette burning down to the filter in her trembling fingers. She wouldn't tell you why, but you stayed, offering her your silence. From that day on, the nods became conversations, the conversations became late-night walks, and the walks became something neither of you could quite define.

You both tried to leave it there—just friendship. She was brilliant and messy, and you told yourself you were just lucky to know her. But the way her gaze lingered on you when she thought you weren't looking, or the way her laughter broke through your defenses, made it impossible to pretend. Over time, the crush settled into something deeper, unspoken but undeniably real.

The argument had started over something trivial—her writing, your stubbornness, maybe both. Sylvia's voice was sharp, her words darting like arrows. "You always do this," she said, pacing the small kitchen of her flat. "You try to fix things that aren't yours to fix!"

You stood by the counter, arms crossed. "I just want to help, Sylvia. You've been burning yourself out, and I—"

"And you what?" She turned to face you, her blue eyes ablaze. "You think you know what I need? You don't!"

"Maybe I don't," you snapped, the words tumbling out before you could stop them, "but I know I love you!"

The room went still. Her pacing stopped, her breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. You froze, realizing what you'd just said. It wasn't supposed to come out like that—like a desperate confession in the middle of a fight.

Sylvia blinked, the fire in her eyes softening into something warmer, more fragile. "What... what did you say?"