What if I Tell You...

It was close to midnight. The common room wasn’t empty, but it had that hushed, sleepy hum. Someone was playing soft guitar a floor above. A pressure cooker hissed in the distance. Lights flickered yellow on the walls, just enough to see, not enough to feel awake.

She sat beside me on the couch. Hoodie half-zipped, damp hair resting on one shoulder, phone in hand with the flashlight toggling on and off as she scrolled. She looked relaxed, but not careless. Comfortable, but not unaware.

I had asked her to come downstairs. No agenda. Just… needed her near. One of those nights where nothing’s exactly wrong, but nothing’s sitting right either.

“I was studying,” she had said at the door, teasing.

“I won’t keep you long,” I had promised. Lied.

Now, we were both sitting in the silence. I was counting heartbeats. My own, I think.

She looked over, waiting.

I didn’t plan how to say it. I just said it.

“What if I tell you… I don’t want you as my friend?”

She froze, a second too long. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t smile either. Just kept looking at me.

“I want you as my wife.”

There. It was out. Simple. Stupid. True.

I half-laughed to fill the air I’d just punched a hole through. “I know. Mad, right? College. Hostel. Everything casual. Nobody says shit like that.”

Still quiet. Her fingers were still, resting against her thigh. Her eyes didn’t blink.

“I don’t know who writes the script of our lives. I don’t know who all are cast in it. But if you’re not in mine…” I looked up. Met her gaze. “I’m going to edit it.”

I saw it then, that flicker behind her eyes. Not shock. Not discomfort. Something else. Like recognition.

She shook her head slowly. “You’re mad.”

“I might be.”

“You don’t even know if I feel the same.”

“I don’t need to. I just needed to say it.”

She exhaled through her nose. Not angry. Just... overwhelmed. “We barely know each other.”

I shrugged. “I know you sing in the shower. I know you tap your nails when you’re nervous. I know you reread texts three times before replying. I know you smile to yourself after replying.”

That almost got her to laugh. She caught it mid-breath.

“I know it’s not enough to claim anything,” I said, softer now. “But it’s enough to hope.”

She turned toward me. Fully now. Her knee brushed mine, and she didn’t pull it back.

“You’re not asking me to say anything right now, are you?” she asked.

“No. I just wanted you to know.”

She looked down at her hands. Then leaned back into the couch.

“You’re an idiot,” she said. Not cruelly. Almost... fondly.

I smiled. “An honest one.”

A few seconds passed like that. Not waiting. Just breathing.

And when she finally looked back at me, there was something in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Not a promise. Not a confession.

But a softness.

A door, maybe. Left a little open.

And that was enough, for now.