I should have talked to her.

The thought had been stuck in my head for the last thirty minutes, looping like a broken record over the relentless noise of the crowd.

The graduation farewell hall of Northbridge Institute of Technology was louder than I had ever heard it before. It smelled faintly of cheap cologne, spilled soft drinks, and the heavy, humid heat of too many people packed into a single enclosed space. Bass-heavy music echoed from the massive speakers near the stage, vibrating right through the floorboards and into the soles of my shoes.

Everywhere I looked, people were celebrating. Students laughed with an intensity that felt almost desperate, trying to squeeze four years of college memories into a single evening. They took endless pictures, recorded shaky videos for social media, and made grand, sweeping promises that they would absolutely stay in touch after graduation.

I wasn’t doing any of those things.

Instead, I stood near the back of the hall, half-hidden in the shadow of a massive decorative pillar. I had a lukewarm paper cup in my hand, pretending to take occasional sips from it just to look occupied, while staring at the same person for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

Ava

She was standing across the room, beautifully illuminated by the harsh, colorful glare of the party lights. She wore a striking, elegant dress in a rich, deep wine color—a dark velvet crimson that made her stand out effortlessly against the chaotic background of the hall.

I caught myself watching the precise, unbothered way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and a sudden wave of panic seized me. I quickly looked away, fixing my gaze intensely on a random exit sign.

Unfortunately, looking away had become a permanent habit. Over the past year, I had become very good at it. It was a reflex—a defense mechanism against my own complete lack of courage.

“Why do you look like someone just stole your entire future?”

The sudden voice right next to my ear made me jump, spilling a tiny splash of warm soda onto my thumb. I turned around quickly.

Sam stood behind me, holding a paper plate filled to the brim with snacks I knew for a fact he had absolutely no intention of sharing. He looked entirely comfortable, completely unaffected by the heavy emotional weight that seemed to be crushing everyone else in the room.

“What kind of question is that?” I asked, wiping my thumb against my jeans.

“The kind that perfectly fits your face.” He took a massive bite of a spring roll.

“My face always looks like this.”

“That’s exactly the problem.”

I rolled my eyes, turning my back to the crowd to lean heavily against the cool brick wall. Sam let out a low, muffled chuckle because his mouth was still half-full, and came to stand right beside me.

Across the hall, a large group of students gathered near a decorated backdrop for another round of photographs. Phones flashed every few seconds, casting brief, blinding white light across the dim room. Somebody shouted over the booming music, gesturing wildly for everyone to squeeze closer together to fit into the frame.

Without thinking, my eyes drifted. They searched the crowd automatically, completely bypassing dozens of familiar faces.

And found her. Again.

She was standing right near the center of the group, flanked by her friends. She was smiling as someone adjusted the camera angle, her laughter completely lost to the booming bass of the speakers, but visible in the genuine crinkle around her eyes.

Her smile always looked entirely effortless. It didn’t look practiced or forced for the lens; it was just completely real.

The realization hit a little too close to home. Panic flared in my chest, and I forced my eyes down instantly, focusing intensely on a dark scuff mark near the edge of a linoleum floor tile. If I looked busy studying the architecture of the floor, maybe nobody would notice how fast my heart was beating.

That was my specialty: hiding in plain sight, overanalyzing every micro-movement to avoid looking like a fool.

But Sam knew me far too well.

I felt his eyes leave my face, track across the crowded room toward the bright flashes at the photography wall, and then snap right back to me. He didn’t need to overthink the variables. For a guy who lived entirely in the moment, the math was incredibly simple.

A slow, unbearable grin spread across his face.

“Oh.”

I knew that “oh.” I absolutely hated it. It was the exact sound Sam made whenever he figured out a secret or stumbled into a new way to mess with me.

“What?” I asked, trying to keep my voice flat, deadpan, and entirely bored.

“Nothing.”

“Sam.”

“I didn’t say a word, man.”

“Your face is saying it loud enough.”

He chuckled, casually popping the last piece of the spring roll into his mouth and rubbing his hands together to shake off the crumbs. “I’m just wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

Instead of answering, he just nudged his chin toward the center of the room. Toward her.

“Aren’t you running out of time?”

The question wasn’t loud, but it cut straight through the heavy bass vibrating through the floorboards. My throat went completely dry. A familiar, cold weight settled deep in my stomach—the exact same paralysis that hit me whenever I was about to raise my hand in class but hesitated until the moment passed.

I stared at him, my entire internal defense system locking up. Sam didn’t blink. For a guy who usually couldn’t stay serious for more than ten seconds, his eyes were unnervingly sharp. He was waiting for me to do something. Anything. Because to Sam, the world was basic: if you want to talk to someone, you just walk over and do it.

I couldn’t hold his gaze. I looked away first, my hand unconsciously tightening around my paper cup until the cardboard buckled.

“You’re imagining things,” I mumbled, pretending to take another sip of absolutely nothing.

“Sure.”

“I am.”

“Okay.”

I hated those short, easy answers. Especially from Sam. It meant he wasn’t going to waste energy arguing with someone who was clearly lying to his own reflection.

And the worst part? I didn’t believe my own excuses either.

For an entire year, my brain had been an endless generator of logical barriers, all designed to protect me from the one thing I feared most: making a fool of myself. Every single night, I’d lie awake replaying fictional conversations, only to wake up the next day and build a wall of logic to stay away from her.

She looks busy studying. Her friends are around, it’ll look weird. It’s too early in the semester. It’s too close to exams. Next week. Next month. Tomorrow.

I had survived entirely on the comfortable lie of “tomorrow.”

But looking around the hall at the packed bags near the exit and the cars waiting outside, I realized I had finally run out of tomorrows. There were only a few hours left before the word “later” simply ceased to exist.

“You know,” Sam said, breaking into my thoughts as he dusted off his paper plate, “most people usually say hello before they spend two consecutive semesters staring at someone.”

“I don’t stare,” I lied, though my voice sounded pathetic and weak, even to me.

Sam just raised a single eyebrow, letting the silence do the heavy lifting.

I dropped my head, completely defenseless against the truth.

“Fine,” he said softly, shaking his head with a faint smile. “Keep lying to yourself if it helps you sleep at night.”

Before the silence between us could get too heavy, a loud, familiar voice cut through the music from the far side of the hall.

“Sam! Hey, Sam! Get over here, we need you in the frame!”

It was Jason, waving aggressively from a massive group near the edge of the stage. Jason looked as practical and serious as ever, probably already counting down the exact minutes until he could leave, but he was dutifully organizing the group photograph anyway.

“Ah, duty calls,” Sam said, letting out a dramatic, theatrical sigh that made him sound like a soldier going to war. “Group photos. The absolute worst. If I get trapped in a conversation with the dean, tell my family I died doing what I loved—procrastinating.”

A small laugh escaped my throat, the tight knot in my chest loosening just a tiny bit. “Go on. Get out of here before Jason comes over and physically drags you by your collar.”

“You coming?” Sam asked, turning backward as he took a step away into the crowd.

“In a minute,” I said, gesturing to the mangled cup. “I’ll finish my drink and head over.”

Sam stopped walking. The goofy, energetic expression completely faded from his face, replaced by a rare, quiet sincerity. He glanced over his shoulder one last time, looking past the crowded room toward Ava. She was talking calmly with one of our professors, completely unaware of the drama unfolding in the back corner of the room. She was just living her life, normal and steady, completely untouched by the chaos in my head.

Sam looked back at me. For once, he didn’t joke. He didn’t tease me, and he didn’t try to force me out of my comfort zone. He just reached out, clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, and gave it a firm, grounding squeeze.

“Don’t wait too long, Ethan.”

And then he turned and walked away, immediately melting into the sea of graduates, instantly matching their loud, easy energy.

I was completely alone again, leaning my back against the cold wall.

The music kept playing—some popular track everyone else seemed to know by heart. Students laughed, glasses clinked, and the strobe lights flashed, casting brief, erratic shadows across the brickwork. The entire world was moving past me like a fast-moving river, and I was just frozen on the riverbank.

But for the first time all night, I stopped fighting my own mind. I didn’t look at the floor tiles, I didn’t look at the exit signs, and I stopped pretending to drink from an empty cup.

I just looked at her.

She was laughing at something her friend had just whispered, her shoulders dropping in a relaxed, easy motion. It was just a laugh. A completely ordinary, mundane moment in a room full of hundreds of them.

Yet, watching it from the dark edge of the room, it felt like the most important thing in the world.

I didn’t know why. Maybe my brain was already mourning the fact that this might be the last time I ever saw her. Maybe because I spent twelve months building flawless, perfect scripts in my head and lacked the courage to say a single “hi” out loud. Or maybe because, deep down in the quietest part of my mind, I was finally ready to admit the truth.

I was running out of time.

And time didn’t care that I was introverted. It didn’t care that I was scared, or that I needed a few more minutes to build up my courage. It wasn’t waiting for me, it wasn’t waiting for her, and it definitely wasn’t waiting for college to end.