Julie

You’re sitting on the floor of your shared dorm room, back against the couch, laptop open on your knees. The playlist she made last week hums in the background, some chill Japanese indie band you pretend not to like because she teases you every time you add one of their songs to your own queue. She’s across from you, sprawled out on the carpet, and her textbook cracked open in front of her, but her eyes keep drifting up. 

You know because yours do the same thing. 

“Hey,” Moka says suddenly, and you look up. 

She’s holding her pen vertically like a mic. “If I fail this midterm, just know I’m blaming your face.” 

You blink, caught off guard. “My face?” 

“Yeah, it’s distracting. Stop being cute.” 

Your heart stutters but you laugh it off, tossing a pencil at her. “Shut up. You literally said my face looked like a gremlin last week.” 

“A cute gremlin,” she says with a wink. “There’s a difference.” 

And then she looks back down like she didn’t just land a direct hit to your chest. 

It’s always like this with her, little moments wrapped in humor and words that sound like jokes until they don’t. 

You don’t know when it started—maybe the second night of freshman year when she stayed up with you after your roommate drama, eating vending machine snacks and talking about home. Or the day she dyed the ends of your hair for you in the dorm bathroom and got blue all over hands or maybe it was the first time she pulled you onto the dance floor at a party and you realized she was the only person who could make you feel like you were the only one there. 

Now, you’re two years into knowing her and it's all tangled—familiar, comfortable, and dangerous. 

“Hey,” she says again, making you glance over, her lips quirk up. “You’re staring again.” 

You smile, caught. “I’m trying to decipher your awful handwriting, actually.” 

She raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “Right. Sure, you are.” 

You both fall quiet, and the silence between you isn’t awkward. It’s never awkward, instead it’s full of everything neither of you are brave enough to say. 

Outside, the sky is soft with early evening light. Inside, the dorm smells like takeout and Moka’s perfume—a warm, subtle scent you’ve come to associate with home. 

You glance at her, she’s chewing the end of her pen, brow furrowed in concentration, her hair pulled up messily with a scrunchie you gave her last Christmas. 

God, you are so screwed. 

She catches your eye again. “You’re really bad at the whole subtle thing.”

“Says the girl wearing my sweatshirt.”

She grins and pulls at the sleeve dramatically. “Yours? I don’t see your name on it.”

You laugh. “It’s lavender. You hate lavender.”

Moka leans closer, voice dipping. “I like the way you smell like lavender.”

Your mouth opens—and then closes again.

Almost.

She pulls back just as fast, spinning back to her notes like she didn’t just drop a nuke between you.

You don’t say anything and neither does she.

That’s the thing about this…whatever this is. You circle each other like planets in orbit, never quite colliding, afraid of what happens if you do.

Sometimes, love slips through in the quietest of ways—in too-honest jokes, lingering stares, and hearts that almost say everything.

But almost isn’t everything. Not yet.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Friday nights are sacred, not in a religious sense but more in a ritualistic “if you break you die” kind of way. 

Ever since junior year started, it’s been the same: ramen from the cheap spot down the street, your favorite weird “soda of the week” from the corner bodega, and some kind of movie playing in the background while the two of you get too lazy to move off the couch. 

Tonight it’s Howl’s Moving Castle again, because Moka’s been on a Ghibli binge and refuses to shut up about “how good the backgrounds are, Y/n, look at the detailing—LOOK.” 

You’ve got your legs tossed over her lap, a blanket pooled around both your bodies, and a bag of popcorn slowly being emptied between movie commentary and the occasional “stop throwing that at me” when Moka flicks a kernel your way. 

Halfway through the movie, she says it. 

“You know,” she starts casually, picking up a piece of popcorn and flicking it into her mouth, “if we were dating, this would be the part where I kiss you.” 

You don’t look at her right away, but you feel it though—that rush of static under your skin and that heart-lurching, chest-tightening panic disguised as butterflies. 

She says it like a joke, light and effortless, but you know her too well and there’s something in the way she doesn’t laugh after. Something in the way her thumb brushes your knee absentmindedly like she doesn’t even notice she’s doing it. 

Your mouth is dry, but you brush it off. 

“Yeah?” you say, pretending your voice isn’t paper-thin. “Guess I should be grateful we’re not then, huh?” 

And there it is again—almost. 

Her laugh comes a beat too late, “Right…totally grateful.” 

The movie keeps playing in the background, Sophie’s hair turns silver on the screen and your heart stays racing. 

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Freshman Year

It started, maybe, with her smile. 

You remember your first week of college—the nerves, the orientation games that made you want to hurl, and the chaos of trying to figure out where the hell your next class was while pretending you weren’t totally overwhelmed. 

You’d gotten paired with Moka for a scavenger hunt, she had showed up in ripped jeans, an oversized sweater, iced coffee in hand, and an easy, disarming grin. 

“I’m Sakai Moka, and I will absolutely dominate at this.” she said, introducing herself to you. 

You laughed, and that was it. 

You two clicked instantly—study sessions, shared playlists, and texts at 2 AM when your brains were fried. By week three, you were sneaking snacks into the library together and sharing a Spotify Premium account like you’d known each other forever. 

Then came the night you got sick. You didn’t even know she knew where your dorm was, but she showed up with medicine, soup, and the world’s fluffiest blanket. 

“Relax,” she said, settling beside you like it was the most normal thing in the world. “My mom says I give off ‘excellent nurse energy’.”

She stayed until you fell asleep, her fingers running through your hair like it was instinct. 

You woke up the next morning to find that she’d left a note on your desk: 

Don’t die. I like you alive. - M. 

You stared at the note for a solid ten minutes, and that’s when it started. 

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

By the time the movie ends, you’re barely watching it, slowly falling asleep. 

Moka shifts beside you. “Hey.” 

You turn, her eyes are soft in the low light and her mouth opens slightly, like she’s about to say something again…something that matters, but then her phone buzzes, and the moment snaps. 

She glances at the screen, sighs, then looks back at you with a smile that feels practiced. 

“Want to split a popsicle?” she asks softly. 

You nod, saying nothing, because almost is safe and tonight, that has to be enough. 

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It’s a Tuesday when you catch her staring.

You’re at your usual library spot, tucked away in the quietest corner with two coffees, three textbooks, and absolutely zero motivation between you. The sun is cutting through the window just enough to halo your face in soft gold, and you’re obliviously highlighting a passage like it’s the most fascinating thing on Earth.

She’s not even pretending to study anymore. Not really.

You look up and catch her mid-stare.

“What?” you ask, grinning as you sip your coffee. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No,” she says too quickly. Then clears her throat. “Just...zoned out.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Zoned out at me?”

She looks back at her notes, cheeks turning a shade pinker than her strawberry pen.

You don’t push. You just let it sit there, quiet and warm, like something you’re both afraid to name.

Later, you walk home in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind where your shoulders brush and you don’t move away. The kind where her fingers keep twitching like they want to reach for yours, but don’t.

You almost say something at the door and she almost leans in, but again—almost.

Always almost.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Moka’s heart starts betraying her sometime between second semester sophomore year and every single moment since.

She notices it in the way your laugh sticks in her head hours after you’ve already gone home. In the way you always scribble notes in blue pen and underline your favorite quotes twice. In the way you stretch first thing in the morning, yawning like a cat, hair a total disaster, and still manage to make her feel like something’s blooming behind her ribs.

She should say it.

She wants to say it.

Sometimes she gets so close her mouth moves before her brain can stop it.

Like that one night on the couch.

“If we were dating, this would be the part where I kiss you.”

She’d meant it.

She meant all of it.

But the second the words were out there, panic kicked in. She saw the flicker in your eyes, the hesitation. And she backtracked, buried it in a laugh. Because losing you? Scares the hell out of her more than silence ever could.

She’s convinced herself it’s enough—the almosts, the near-misses and the movie nights and quiet library moments and stolen glances when you’re not looking.

But every time you say her name like it’s something soft and precious, she feels it—this ache to close the space between you. To say it and mean it.

She wonders if you’d believe her or if she’ll ever be brave enough, because almost feels safer than everything, but god, she wants everything.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It’s 2:12 AM when you wake up on the couch.

Your neck hurts. Your limbs are tangled awkwardly in the blanket. And the only light in the room is the flicker of the paused Netflix screen asking “Are you still watching?”

Moka is still awake.

Barely.

She’s curled beside you, head resting against the arm of the couch, a sleepy half-smile on her face and your hand in hers like it’s just...normal, like it’s always been that way.

“You fell asleep,” she whispers, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet yours.

“You let me,” you whisper back, your voice still thick with sleep.

She squeezes your hand. “Yeah. I like having you close.”

It hangs there, suspended in the dim quiet like a balloon full of too-much hope.

You turn toward her slowly, trying not to overthink it and trying not to let your pulse give you away.

The world feels still—small and soft, her lips are inches from yours now.

You could kiss her.

You could.

It’s so easy to imagine—just lean in, close your eyes, and finally let the almost become everything.

But instead, you blink and laugh. Barely.

“Sleepy Moka is way too honest.”

She smiles, but it’s thinner this time. “Maybe sleepy Moka’s the only one who doesn’t chicken out.”

You both go quiet and this time, no one fills it.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

A week later, you fall asleep at your desk.

You hadn’t meant to. Finals were coming up, your laptop was open, coffee half-drunk and cold. You must’ve passed out mid-sentence, cheek pressed against your notes.

And in that dreamspace—blurry and soft-edged—you see her.

Moka.

She’s sitting on the floor, same as always, legs crossed, smiling in that way she does when she’s about to say something she means.

Only this time, she doesn’t tease.

She just looks at you with those gentle, fire-warmed eyes and says:

“You don’t get it, do you? I’m in love with you. Have been since you lent me that stupid pen freshman year.”

And dream-you laughs, a little breathless.

“Then why didn’t you ever say it?”

She shrugs.

“You always looked just almost in love with me. Never enough to risk it.”

You reach for her hand.

“You should’ve said it anyway.”

The second your fingers brush—bam.

You jolt awake.

Moka is there, standing in your doorway with two smoothies and her hair tied up in a sleepy bun. She looks startled when you gasp.

“You okay?” she asks. “You were mumbling something.”

You stare at her, heart pounding like a war drum.

“I had a dream,” you say, still dazed.

“About what?”

You hesitate, almost saying it, but then again…almost.

“Nothing,” you lie. “Just tired.”

But your heart is screaming the words anyway.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It’s late, you’re curled up in bed, face buried into your pillow, wearing Moka’s hoodie again because it smells like vanilla shampoo and the kind of comfort you don’t get from anyone else. 

Sleep doesn’t come easy tonight because your head is filled with thoughts of her—her laugh when she finds something funny, her sleepy voice at 3 AM, the way she hums when she’s focused, and the little freckle just under her jaw that you pretend not to stare at. 

You wonder what would happen if you just said it. If you let it all out in one breathless sentence. 

“I’m in love with you.” 

You whisper into your pillow like a secret, like something you’ll forget in the morning. Except, you’re not alone, Moka’s in the doorway—silent and frozen, holding the charger she came to return. 

She didn’t knock nor did she mean to eavesdrop, but she heard it and everything inside her went quiet. 

You don’t notice her, not at first but when you roll over, eyes half-lidded and heart still fluttering from the imagined confession—you see her. 

And your world stops. 

“...Moka?”

Her voice is too soft when she speaks. 

“You said you loved me.” 

You sit up so fast it makes you dizzy. “Wait—no, I mean—yes? But…hold on, how long were you–?” 

“I wasn’t trying to listen.” Her hand grips the charger like it’s anchoring her to the planet. “I came to give you this…I didn’t think you’d be sleeping or dreaming or—saying that.” 

Silence. Thick and terrifying. 

You could lie, say it meant nothing and blame it on the stress, pretend it never happened. 

But this time? You don’t. Instead, you take a breath and finally, finally, say it for real. 

“I wasn’t dreaming. I meant it. I love you, Moka.” 

She stares, then drops the charger and crosses the room in two seconds flat. 

Her hands cup your face like she’s been dying to touch you forever. “I almost said it a thousand times,” she murmurs. “I thought I’d ruin us if I did.” 

Your lips curl, heart thudding hard against your ribs. “Almost doesn’t count anymore.” 

And when she kisses you, it’s everything—warm, familiar, and so incredibly overdue. 

You melt into her, tangled in hoodie sleeves and breathless laughter, like the universe has finally, finally titled in the right direction. 

Later, you’re both curled in bed, tangled in limbs, sheets, and the kind of quiet that feels safe now. 

“You really dreamt about me confessing?” she asks, grinning against your shoulder. 

You groan in embarrassment, “I was so close to taking that to my grave.” 

She laughs, fingers tracing patterns along your arm. “You talk in your sleep.” 

You hum in response, “So do you.” 

Pause and then: 

“You said my name once.”