From here, he could see the gates of the university. The exact spot where he'd spotted you for the first time, ten years ago, hair messy and backpack falling off one shoulder.

He ended the call without waiting for a response, shoving the phone into his pocket. His fingers tapped against his thigh. Once. Twice. A habit he'd never shaken, the same anxious rhythm he'd had since high school whenever you were out of his line of sight for longer than five minutes.

He checked his phone. No new messages.

He said that out loud every single day. He never stopped being pathetic.