Amara

I didn’t plan to like him. 

I didn’t even plan to text him back. 

Which, I guess, is funny, considering I couldn’t stop thinking about him all weekend.

  Dorian.

  His name felt like a steady echo. Like a soft knock I kept hearing even after the door had already opened.

  The walk back from dinner had been colder than I remembered. My coat sleeves were tugged over my hands, but the warmth in my chest came from him. His arm brushes mine every so often, his laugh low and quiet. His dimples deepened with every smile like they knew the effect they had on me.

Constanza didn’t say anything when we left the restaurant, but she gave me that look—the smug one. Proud of herself. Trying not to gloat. I didn’t give her the satisfaction. Her and David had slowed down behind us, probably on purpose, probably with that not-so-subtle matchmaking grin she gets when she thinks she’s being slick. I didn’t mind.

He was tall—like tall tall. At 5’5, I was used to being eye level with most of the people I spoke to. Dorian wasn’t one of them. He was 6’2, and it showed. He matched my pace without saying anything, but every now and then when our arms swung a little too close, the height difference made it feel like we were two rhythms trying to share the same beat.

Truthfully, I liked the whole dinner. The banter, the energy, the way we all traded bites from each other’s plates like we’d known one another longer than a semester. It felt easy.

But I liked the side conversations with Dorian even more.

He leaned in when I talked—not because I was quiet, but because he was really listening. He asked about my major, my favorite book, why I preferred cloudy days over sunny ones. But it never felt like simple small talk to pass time. It felt like he genuinely wanted to know me.

He looked at me like he wasn’t trying to figure me out. Just. . . letting me unfold in my own way at my own pace.

I wasn’t used to that.

  People always want to label you. Quiet. Smart. Weird. Sad. Strong. They don’t usually wait long enough to get it right. But Dorian did.

  And that scared me.

Because when you grow up learning that people leave, you start looking for the signs early. You memorize the sound of a door closing. You get good at pretending you were never waiting on anyone to begin with.

My mom left when I was five—to pursue a modeling career in Los Angeles. I wonder how that’s going for her. Almost 14 years later and I’ve never seen her in any magazines or commercials. And I’m ashamed to say I actually checked. When she first left, any chance I got I would search the pages of any fashion magazine I could get a hold of. That little ritual went on for about two years. When I couldn’t find her in any, I used to be relieved, thinking she would come home soon. Of course she never came. Never called. And never wrote.

My grandfather—her dad—died less than a year after she left. I overheard Aunt Dawn and some other family members saying it was heartbreak. I found out that’s a real thing. The way your body just gives up when the ache gets too heavy from missing someone too much.

So I taught myself not to get too close so I wouldn’t ache for people who might disappear.

But Dorian?

  He was making it harder to pretend I didn’t want something more.

  As we reached my residence hall, I slowed down. He slowed with me. He looked relaxed—hands tucked in his jacket pockets, head slightly tilted like he was debating saying something else.

“You guys eat there often?” I asked, just to break the silence.

“Sometimes,” he said. “But I’ve never had that many laughs over fries and milkshakes.”

I laughed. “That’s probably because Constanza treats every outing like it’s a movie scene.”

  “She really does,” he agreed, smiling. “But it worked. I’m glad you came.”

There was a pause. A soft one.

  Then he shifted his weight and stepped slightly in front of me. I looked up.

  He opened his arms—just a little. An obvious invitation.

  I froze. Not in fear, just surprise. Hugs weren’t my strong suit. Not with boys. And definitely not when I liked them.

  He must’ve noticed the way my posture changed and the nervous flutter of my fingers. His expression didn’t shift, but his movement did. He smoothly turned the hug into a dap, hand outstretched in mock-seriousness.

  “Alright then,” he joked, smiling. “We’re keeping it formal. I can respect that.”

  I laughed, the awkward tension breaking a little. I went along with it, pressing my palm to his and pulling back quickly.

  “Goodnight, Amara,” he said, his voice low and kind.

  “Goodnight,” I murmured.

  He didn’t linger. He didn’t push. He just smiled once more and turned to go.

When I got out of the shower a little later, I had a new text message waiting for me. It was from Dorian.

Dorian: I really enjoyed being around you tonight. I’d love to see you again sometime soon.

  I didn’t answer.

  Not because I didn’t want to.

  But because I wanted it too much.

***

Monday morning was loud in that back-from-break kind of way. Friends’ fake-squeals echoing through the quad like they hadn’t seen each other in months. We were gone for less than a week.

I kept my headphones in. I wasn’t listening to anything. Just hiding.

That’s when I saw him. 

Near the library, walking with David. 

He must have spotted me first because he was already looking at me when I looked up. His smile wasn’t wide, but it was enough. Then he winked, adding a little razzle-dazzle to the butterflies I was already feeling.

I smiled back. Just a little. Then looked away like it hadn’t just made my whole chest tighten in ways I couldn’t explain.

Later that afternoon, I ran into him again. Outside the campus center.

  This time, he actually stopped.

  “Hey, Amara,” he said, his voice easy and warm. “How’s your first day back treating you?” 

I shrugged. “It’s been busy, and I’m a little tired. But it’s fine.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, mine too. I’m not sure anyone actually slept last night. I think we all collectively gave up and pulled all-nighters.”

We talked for maybe thirty seconds. A few words, a soft smile, then a quiet pause. It wasn’t a big moment.

  But it meant something.

  That night, I called Constanza to give her a recap of last night’s walk home and see how her first day back went.  She was still unpacking her winter clothes she’d brought back.

“You still haven’t texted him?” she asked, immediately.

“I’m thinking about it.”

Constanza didn’t hide her irritation when I told her I still hadn’t responded.

“Thinking? Amara, he texted you even after you left him on read. He smiled at you like you hung the moon. He literally stopped to talk to you twice today.”

  I opened my mouth to argue that we actually only spoke once, and the other encounter was just a smile, but she didn’t stop.

  “He showed interest. Not the fake kind, either. He smiled in public, he walked you home, and he didn’t get weird when you didn’t hug him. He adjusted. He paid attention.” She groaned, “Girl. . .  do you understand how rare that is?”

She wasn’t wrong. 

He didn’t just say he liked being around me—he showed it. 

He didn’t vanish because I hesitated.

He didn’t get defensive.

He didn’t push. 

He just. . . stayed.

And that? That was more than a glance.

That was intent.

After I hung up, I sat on my bed and opened his text thread.

His message from Sunday night was still sitting there.

Dorian: I really enjoyed being around you tonight. I’d love to see you again sometime soon.

It was so simple and sincere, with not a hint of pressure.

I read it once. Then again.

I stared at it one more time, then I began typing:

I’d like that, too. 

My fingers hovered, and my heart was thudding loudly in my chest. Finally, I pressed send.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was waiting for someone to leave.