The way you looked at me

Jay didn’t mean to fall for her.

He just did.

It started like nothing: two people sitting on opposite sides of the classroom. Her name was Cam. Short for Camila. She transferred in the middle of junior year. The kind of girl who wore hoodies even in the heat, kept her head down, and never raised her hand.

Jay noticed her right away. Not because she tried to stand out—she didn’t—but because she never looked anyone in the eye. He got good at watching her when she wasn’t looking. Not in a weird way. Just in a curious way.

He liked the way she leaned into her notebook like it was the only thing keeping her upright. The way she played with the sleeves of her hoodie when she was nervous. The way her eyes flicked up to the window during long lectures, like she’d rather be anywhere else.

Weeks passed.

They never spoke.

Then one afternoon in English, their teacher paired them up for a poetry assignment. Jay tried not to show how fast his heart was beating.

Cam looked at him like she was trying to figure out if he was real.

They met up at the library that Friday. Didn’t get much done. They spent more time talking than writing. Cam’s voice was quiet, but she had things to say—about books, music, stuff Jay had never thought about until she brought it up.

She made him feel like someone new.

That night, she texted him. Just a meme. Nothing serious. But it was the start of everything.

They started sitting closer in class. Sending songs back and forth. Meeting at the park after dark, just to walk and talk and not be home. Neither of them said what was happening, but they both knew. They were falling. Slowly. Quietly. Like dusk rolling in.

Cam was guarded. Jay didn’t ask why.

She told him little things—how she didn’t trust people. How some friendships burned out faster than they started. How she used to write all the time but stopped because it made her feel too much.

Jay just listened. He didn’t try to fix her.

He told her about his anxiety. How sometimes he couldn’t breathe when nothing was even wrong. How he hated parties. How he never really felt seen by anyone.

Except her.

And one night, while they were sitting on the swings at the elementary school where they used to go as kids, Cam said, “You ever feel like you’re not supposed to let someone in—but you do anyway?”

Jay looked at her. The light from the streetlamps made her eyes look darker.

“Yeah,” he said. “Right now.”

She looked away.

But she didn’t move.

They didn’t kiss that night. They just sat there, leaning shoulder to shoulder, silent in a way that didn’t need words.

After that, it was official, even though no one ever said it out loud. She started drawing little stars on the back of his hand with pen during lunch. He made her playlists with titles like “for when you can’t sleep” and “you’re not weird you’re just awake.”

They were never all over each other. They weren’t the couple that posted every moment. It was quieter than that. More sacred. Just them.

But the good parts came with fear.

Some days, Cam would pull away for no reason. Go quiet for hours. Look through him like he wasn’t there.

Jay never pushed.

He just waited.

Then one night, at her place, sitting on her bedroom floor with a candle burning and the world outside silent, she asked, “Why do you even like me?”

Jay looked up from his notebook.

“You ever seen the way you look at the sky?” he said. “Like it owes you something?”

Cam blinked. “That’s why?”

“No. That’s just the part I can say out loud.”

She kissed him.

It was soft, but it felt like jumping off a roof. Nothing safe about it. Just falling.

She told him she loved him two weeks later. Not in person. Just in a text.

Jay read it ten times before he replied:

“I do too. I just didn’t want to scare you.”

She said,

“You always scare me. That’s how I know it’s real.”

And that was the truth of them.

They were both afraid. But they stayed. Not perfectly. Not without fear.

But with something stronger than fear: choice.

They chose each other.

Every day.

Quietly. Reluctantly. Beautifully.

Even when it would’ve been easier not to.