Minus thirty, wind like knives. 

My glasses froze stepping off the bus. 

I couldn’t walk straight, but I kept walking. 

​He met me behind the mall. 

No slow-motion, no music. 

But something in me stopped. 

​Broken elevator. Stairs in silence. 

Opened the door. His apartment smelled like a new book. 

​We sat without speaking. 

I stared at a pile of clothes instead of his face. 

Hid my glasses in a coat. 

Asked if I could smoke. 

He said I didn’t have to go outside. 

​We talked. Laughed. 

Shared bread and pickles. 

He poured the drink. “To finally meeting,” 

as if it meant something. 

​I lied and said my dorm locked at eleven. 

It locked at one. 

He offered a couch. I stayed three days. 

​We talked about helicopters – that stomach-lifting feeling when you’re drunk enough to think

something good might happen. 

​We kissed. Nothing else. He didn’t push. 

I thought it meant something was settled. 

​The second night: hands, breath, skin. 

​I told him I loved him. 

Not because it slipped out. 

I just said it. 

​He sighed. 

Not sweet. The kind that closes a door in your chest. 

​I took it back. “Sorry. That was dumb.” 

He didn’t argue. 

“Yeah. That was stupid.” 

​I felt the snap. A fool outrunning the weather, only to find out I was still too much. 

​I stayed. 

Because when someone exhales like that, you think love is a noise you’re not allowed to make.