By mid-October, the rain finally gave up. The air went dry and smelled of dust, and evenings started earlier than they should.
Alex had started waiting for her without meaning to on the steps, by the gate, pretending to scroll through his phone. He told himself it was a coincidence. He didn’t believe it.

She’d gotten busier with college. Fewer walks, fewer chats. Sometimes she’d still wave when she saw him coming back from practice, but it felt different now, lighter, polite. Like they were both aware of something building between them but didn’t want to look directly at it.

One evening, she stopped by the wall again. The same plants, now half-dead because “someone” forgot to water them.
“You stopped training?” she asked, looking at his bruised knuckles.
“Not really,” he said. “Just tired, I guess.”
“Same,” she said, and smiled. “I miss being tired for good reasons.”

They sat there for a while, no real plan to talk. The streetlights flickered on, moths already waiting for them.
He could hear her voice, faint through his ear. Same way, as he heard at the start.
She said lets hear a song she pulled one earbud out and offered it, he hesitated then took it.

The song was slow. Not sad, but it had that kind of ache you don’t name.

“Don’t laugh,” she said, “but this song kinda feels like us.”
He asked, “How’s that?”
She shrugged. “Just… there’s a start, a middle, but no clear ending.”

She smiled t. The kind of smile that hides too much.

He wanted to say everything right then. That he thought of her when the rain hit his window. That her laugh stuck to his head even when he didn’t want it to. That maybe he’d started living around her without realizing it.

But he just said, “Can I tell you something?”
She nodded.
“I like you.”

She didn’t speak. Didn’t look away either. The moment stretched too long, and he almost regretted saying it.
Then she exhaled and said quietly, “You always do things so suddenly.”
He asked, “Is that bad?”
She shook her head. “No. It’s just… unexpected.”

The streetlight buzzed above them. Someone in the distance called for their dog.
She finally said, “Let me think, okay?”
“Okay,” he said.

They stood, brushed the dust from their clothes.
When she left, she waved like always, but slower this time.

That night, he didn’t scroll through anything. Just stared at the ceiling, waiting for a message that didn’t come.

Two days later, she texted:

“I think I like you too. But let’s not rush it. I don’t want to ruin something good.”

He read it twice, smiled once, and replied only:

“Alright.”

Later, he came across a line online one of those things people post when they don’t know who to say it to:

“Love doesn’t start when two people meet. It starts when one stops pretending they’re fine without the other.”

He didn’t know if that was love yet, but it was something close enough to make breathing feel different.