Stories Told Between Loading Screens 💜

March, Week 2 — Saturday —

Evan’s hands were already warm when he pulled up in front of Salma’s house.

Not from the drive — from nerves.

He shut the engine off and sat there for half a second longer than necessary, breathing in through his nose like he was bracing himself for something big. When the front door opened and Salma stepped out, jacket zipped halfway, hair loose, smiling like this was something she’d been looking forward to all morning, the nerves didn’t go away.

They just softened.

“Hey,” she said as she climbed into the passenger seat.

“Hey,” he replied, voice steadier than he felt.

She buckled in and glanced around the cab, then looked back at him. “So… where are we going?”

Evan pulled away from the curb, eyes on the road. “Somewhere beautiful.”

Salma watched him for a second, then smiled and leaned back in her seat. “Okay,” she said. “I like that.”

The drive unfolded easily. Music low. Windows cracked. The scenery thinning as the road opened up. Evan drove like he wanted the moment to arrive intact. Salma didn’t ask again where they were going. She didn’t need to.

When he finally pulled over, the place looked like it had been waiting for them — open grass, a line of trees just starting to hint at spring, sunlight spreading across the ground like it had nowhere better to be.

Salma let out a quiet, amazed sound. “Evan…”

“Hold on,” he said, already hopping out and grabbing a folded blanket from the back.

He led her a short way off the path. When they crested the small rise, everything was already set up.

The blanket laid out neatly. A basket to one side. Paints and brushes arranged carefully, like someone had practiced placing them — and then practiced again.

Salma stopped.

“You did all this?” she asked.

Evan shrugged, suddenly shy. “Yeah. I, uh… I asked one of your home ec people what would be good to make. Picnic-wise. I didn’t want to mess it up.”

Her smile widened, eyes bright with something like awe. “You asked for help?”

He laughed under his breath. “I asked for a lot of help.”

She laughed too, stepping closer, taking it all in. “This is really beautiful.”

Something in his chest loosened at that. “I’m glad.”

They sat together, legs stretched out, shoulders close but not pressed. The food was simple but thoughtful — familiar flavors, warm and comforting instead of showy. Salma took a bite of something and looked up at him.

“This is really good.”

“Yeah?” His ears warmed.

“Yeah,” she said. “You did great.”

Conversation came easily after that. Slower than school, softer than routine. They talked about things they hadn’t circled before — small stories, half-formed thoughts, things that felt safer out here. Time moved differently, like it had agreed not to rush them.

Eventually, Evan reached for the paint.

“I thought,” he said, hesitating, “I could show you. If you want.”

Salma eyed the brushes. “I’m bad at that.”

“That’s okay,” he said quickly. “You don’t have to be.”

She smiled. “Okay. Show me.”

He scooted closer, guiding her hand gently, explaining without correcting. Salma laughed when the colors blended into something messy and unexpected, when paint smudged onto her fingers.

“This is terrible,” she said, grinning.

“It’s not,” Evan said. “It’s just… yours.”

They kept painting, teasing each other lightly. Evan insisted a paint streak on her sleeve was “intentional.” Salma told him he was lying and tried to wipe it off, only making it worse.

“Stop,” she laughed, nudging his shoulder. “You’re objectively wrong.”

“I’m an artist,” he said. “I don’t do objective.”

She laughed again, leaning forward to grab a napkin at the same time Evan reached for it from the other side.

They bumped foreheads.

“Sorry—”

“Sorry—”

They laughed, still a little breathless, still close.

Evan pulled back just enough to look at her. He hadn’t planned on leaning in — it happened like a question he didn’t realize he was asking. He hesitated, just a beat.

Salma didn’t.

She closed the distance and kissed him, quick and soft and slightly crooked, like it surprised her too.

When they pulled apart, neither of them said anything.

They just smiled.

Evan shook his head once, still grinning like he couldn’t quite believe his luck. Salma laughed quietly and bumped her knee against his.

They stayed like that for another moment, the afternoon settling back around them like nothing had been disrupted — only improved.

When they finally packed up, Salma folded her painting carefully.

“I’m keeping this,” she said.

He smiled. “Good.”

As they walked back toward the truck, Salma reached for his hand without looking. Evan’s fingers laced with hers easily, like it had already been decided.

The drive home felt quieter — not awkward, just full.

—

Salma Suleman

March, Week 2 — Saturday —

Salma decided early not to ask too many questions.

When Evan said somewhere beautiful, she let the words settle and trusted them. She watched the road instead — the way his hands stayed steady on the wheel, the way he glanced over like he was checking that she was still there.

She was.

Seeing everything set up made her chest ache in a good way. Not because it was impressive — but because it was thoughtful. Because he’d tried. Because he’d wanted this to be right.

Sitting with him felt different from school. From habits and routines and half-stolen moments. This was chosen.

Painting beside him was freeing in a way she hadn’t expected. Not because she was good at it — she wasn’t — but because she didn’t have to be. When she messed up, Evan smiled like that was part of the point.

The kiss happened without announcement. Without planning. One second laughter, the next closeness, and then suddenly —

Oh.

She smiled afterward more than she spoke.

Walking back to the truck with her hand in his felt easy. Natural. Like the day had gently nudged them somewhere new and neither of them had resisted.

This wasn’t just a date.

March, Week 2 — Thursday —

Evan had rehearsed this. Not in full sentences — just fragments. Openers. Breaths. The idea of it.

None of them survived the moment.

Salma stood in front of him near the edge of the courtyard, bag slung over one shoulder, sunlight catching in her hair. She was mid-sentence about something Breana had said that morning, hands moving as she talked, completely at ease. Evan nodded along, smiled in the right places, barely registered the words.

His friends stood a few feet behind her. Not close enough to be obvious. Not far enough to be helpful.

One of them gave a thumbs-up. Another mouthed now.

Evan swallowed.

“Hey, um—” he started, then stopped. He rubbed his thumb against the strap of his bag, eyes dropping to the ground like it might offer guidance. His face felt warm. Too warm.

Salma tilted her head. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah. I just—”

He glanced past her without meaning to.

Salma noticed. She turned, following his line of sight.

Behind her, his friends froze.

One pretended to check his phone. Another bent down like he’d dropped something. A third waved awkwardly, then immediately stopped waving.

They all suddenly found the sky very interesting.

Salma blinked, confused, then turned back to Evan, eyebrows raised in amused curiosity. “What was that?”

Evan closed his eyes for half a second.

Just say it.

He took a breath. A real one. Then another.

“I was just wondering,” he said, voice quieter now, steadier because he wasn’t trying to be smooth anymore. He still couldn’t quite look at her — his gaze hovered somewhere near her shoulder, her hands, the space between them. “If you maybe wanted to—”

He stopped. Winced. Restarted.

“Sorry. I’m bad at this.”

Salma smiled, already softer, already leaning in without realizing it. “Evan—”

“Would you want to go on a date with me?” he blurted, words tumbling over each other at the end like they were afraid of being taken back. “Like. An actual date. With me.”

Silence.

Not long. Just long enough.

Salma stared at him.

Her brain went completely, wonderfully blank.

Oh.

Oh.

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Evan’s heart dropped straight through his chest.

“Oh—” he said quickly, heat flooding his face. “I mean, it’s totally fine if you don’t—I didn’t mean to make it weird, I just thought— I mean, we already— not that it’s assumed or anything—”

“Evan.”

Her voice cut through the spiral gently.

He looked up then, finally, eyes wide and apologetic and a little terrified.

“Yes?”

Salma was smiling so hard it almost hurt.

“Yes,” she said immediately. “I would love to.”

The words rushed out of her now, bright and unfiltered. “Yes. I want to. Very much.”

Evan blinked.

Then smiled.

A real one. Wide and unguarded and unmistakably relieved, like the world had just shifted back into alignment.

“Okay,” he said, laughing under his breath, cheeks still pink. “Okay. Good.”

Salma laughed too, warmth blooming in her chest as she watched him — watched the tension leave his shoulders, watched his smile mirror hers like it had been waiting to.

Behind her, one of his friends silently celebrated.

Salma didn’t turn around this time.

They lingered longer than usual after school.

The parking lot was thinning out, the sky dimming into that soft, end-of-day gray that made everything feel momentary. Evan shifted his bag on his shoulder, fingers brushing the folded page inside like it might disappear if he didn’t acknowledge it.

“Hey,” he said. “Before you go.”

Salma turned back, unhurried. “Yeah?”

He pulled the paper from his bag, holding it out carefully, already half-shrugging. “I—um. I made this. It’s not finished or anything. Just… something.”

She took it slowly.

When she opened it, everything about her stilled.

It was her — not posed, not performing. Caught mid-thought, eyes soft, mouth just on the edge of a smile. It wasn’t how she looked in mirrors or photos. It was how she felt when she wasn’t trying.

She looked up at him, a little stunned. “Evan…”

He glanced away, embarrassed. “You don’t have to keep it if you don’t want—”

“This is how you see me?” she asked.

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

She folded the paper carefully, like it mattered. “I love it,” she said simply.

Then she reached into her tote and pulled out a small container, wrapped neatly in foil.

“I made you something,” she said, suddenly shy. “From that restaurant you told me about. The one that closed.”

Evan blinked. “You remembered that?”

“You talked about it like it mattered,” she said. “You can heat it up later. I wasn’t sure when you’d get home.”

Something in his chest shifted.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly.

They stood there for a second longer than necessary before splitting off, the goodbye gentle instead of heavy — more see you than leaving.

—

Evan Hayes Later That Night —

Evan set the container on the counter as soon as he got home.

The house was calm, his parents moving through it with their usual quiet efficiency. He peeled back the foil just enough to look, then slid the dish into the oven, setting the timer carefully.

When the smell started to bloom, it stopped him in his tracks.

His mom passed through the kitchen and paused. “That smells familiar.”

He glanced up. “Yeah?”

She frowned slightly, thinking. “Did that place on Chestnut reopen? The one you liked when you were younger?”

“No,” Evan said. After a beat, he added, “Someone made it for me.”

She looked at him for a moment, then smiled — small, genuine. “That was thoughtful.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It was.”

She moved on, the moment left hanging but warm.

When the timer went off, Evan plated the food and sat at the table alone. The first bite pulled something loose — memory, comfort, a sense of being known that surprised him with its intensity.

He ate slowly.

When he finished, he washed the container carefully and set it aside instead of throwing it away.

Upstairs, he pulled his sketchbook from his bag and stared at the blank space where her drawing had been.

For the first time, giving something of himself hadn’t felt like loss.

It felt mutual.

—

Salma Suleman February, Week 2 — Friday —

Salma didn’t open the sketch again until she was alone.

She sat on her bed and unfolded it carefully, tracing the lines with her eyes like she was memorizing them. He hadn’t drawn her trying. He’d drawn her being.

She smiled, heart steady, and tucked the sketch into a book she kept close — somewhere safe.

Valentine’s Day hadn’t been loud.

It hadn’t needed to be.

Lunch had already started when Evan got there.

He slid into his usual seat and dropped his bag beside him, glancing up more out of habit than expectation. He knew Salma would show. She always did. Still, the chair next to him stayed empty longer than he was used to.

A friend across the table smirked. “Running solo today?”

Evan shrugged. “She’ll be here.”

Someone else leaned back. “Confident.”

He smiled, easy. “Yeah.”

The conversation drifted, but Evan’s attention stayed loosely tethered to the entrance. When Salma finally appeared, tray balanced in one hand, hair a little undone, his chest eased without him realizing it had tightened at all.

She spotted him immediately.

“Sorry,” she said as she sat down beside him. “Got stuck after class.”

“No worries,” Evan replied, shifting so their shoulders brushed. “I figured.”

She reached over and stole a fry from his tray without asking.

“Rude,” he said.

“You love it.”

Someone at the table laughed. “You two are ridiculous.”

Evan didn’t argue.

—

DECA ran long.

It wasn’t unusual — reminders, planning, someone asking one more question on the way out. By the time Evan checked the clock, the hallway outside was already thinning.

He grabbed his bag and headed toward Salma’s lockers anyway, slowing as he approached.

She wasn’t there.

It didn’t spike into worry. Just awareness. A small disruption in the shape of the day.

He pulled out his phone.

Where you at?

The reply came quickly.

Already headed out 😭 thought you’d be busy

He didn’t think about it long.

Wait. I’m coming.

He jogged the rest of the way, breath slightly uneven by the time he spotted her halfway down the hall. She turned at the sound of her name, surprise breaking into a smile.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he replied, falling into step beside her like nothing had been interrupted at all.

—

Salma Suleman February, Week 1 — Wednesday —

Salma hated being late to lunch.

Not because she missed anything important — just because Evan was always already there, and she didn’t like making him wait. She hurried through the hallway, already scanning the table before she reached it.

He was there.

Relief settled warmly in her chest as she dropped into the seat beside him.

“Sorry,” she said again, quieter this time.

He smiled. “You’re fine.”

Someone across the table raised an eyebrow. “You apologizing now?”

Salma laughed. “Only when it matters.”

Evan bumped her shoulder lightly with his own, and she leaned into it without thinking.

Later, when school let out, Salma slowed automatically near her lockers.

Evan wasn’t there.

She checked her phone once, then started walking. He was probably busy. It didn’t bother her — it just registered as different.

Her phone buzzed.

Wait. I’m coming.

She stopped without thinking.

When Evan caught up to her, slightly out of breath, she smiled. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” he said, like it was obvious.

They walked the rest of the way together, steps falling into sync again. Someone passing by called out, “Do you two ever separate?”

Salma laughed, bumping Evan gently with her arm. “Sometimes.”

“Briefly,” Evan added.

The joke followed them down the hall, light and affectionate.

The interruption had been small. Almost nothing.

But the way it corrected itself — automatically, without discussion — made something clear as they parted ways.

Being together wasn’t something they planned anymore.

It didn’t happen all at once.

The first time, Evan arrived at the table early and dropped his bag into the chair beside him without thinking about it. When his friend started to sit there anyway, Evan caught his eye and tilted his head—just slightly.

The look was enough.

His friend sighed, exaggerated, and slid down a seat. “You’re annoying,” he muttered.

Evan didn’t respond. He just waited.

Salma showed up a minute later, tray balanced in one hand. She paused when she saw the open seat, then looked at Evan. Something passed between them—recognition, maybe. She sat down without asking.

They talked like usual. Laughed. Ate. Nothing about it felt like a decision.

By midweek, Evan started lingering by the lockers near her class. Not obviously waiting. Just… there. Adjusting his bag. Checking his phone. When Salma came out and spotted him, her smile came easy, like it belonged to the sight of him standing there.

They walked together more often than not after that. Sometimes all the way to her classroom. Sometimes only halfway. Their shoulders brushed. Their steps matched without effort.

One night, his phone buzzed while he was doing homework.

You here yet?

He stared at the screen for half a second before replying.

Outside.

K.

It wasn’t a plan. It didn’t need to be.

By Friday, they had an inside joke no one else seemed to understand. Someone would say something ordinary, and Evan would glance at Salma, and she’d already be smiling. Their laughter came late, just a beat behind everyone else’s, like an echo only they shared.

By the end of January, people stopped asking why they were always together.

It was just assumed.

When February arrived, cold settling deeper into the mornings, Evan realized he hadn’t thought about before in a while. There was just this—walking with her, sitting beside her, hearing his name in her voice and expecting it.

When they split off at the end of the day, it didn’t feel like an ending.

Just a pause.

—

Salma Suleman January, Week 3 → February, Week 1 —

At first, Salma noticed the little things.

The way Evan always seemed to get there first. The way there was always space beside him. The way he looked up when she approached, like he’d already decided where she belonged.

She let it happen.

She didn’t question it, didn’t tease him about it. She just sat, just walked, just stayed. The ease of it surprised her more than the closeness did.

By the middle of the week, she started looking for him without meaning to. Not anxiously. Just instinctively. When she spotted him by her lockers, waiting without looking like he was waiting, she smiled and fell into step beside him.

No explanation required.

Their messages started sounding different too. Shorter. Assumed. Less do you want and more where are you.

She liked that.

By Friday, someone at the table frowned when they laughed at something no one else caught. “What’s funny?”

Salma shook her head, still smiling. “You had to be there.”

And she meant it.

January faded quietly. February came in with cold hands and gray mornings, but Salma felt warm more often than not. When she walked with Evan now, it felt settled—like something she didn’t have to think about to enjoy.

When they parted ways at the end of the day, she didn’t feel the absence immediately.

She knew she’d see him again.

School felt sharper after winter break.

The halls were louder, colder somehow, like everyone had come back carrying the weight of January with them. Evan adjusted his grip on his bag as he moved through the crowd, already scanning without meaning to.

He spotted Salma near the lockers.

She turned when she saw him, and the smile that crossed her face wasn’t surprised — it was immediate. Familiar. Like it had been waiting for him to arrive.

Something in his chest shifted.

“Hey,” he said, stepping closer.

“Hey,” she replied, eyes bright.

They fell into step together without talking about it. Evan matched her pace easily, walking beside her like it was something they’d done a hundred times already. The conversation started soft — a comment about how unfair it was to be back, how winter break hadn’t been long enough — but it didn’t need much to keep going.

At one point, Salma bumped her shoulder into his.

Not hard. Not apologetic. Just there.

Evan laughed, surprised by the sound of it. He glanced at her, caught the corner of her smile, and realized how close they were walking — closer than before, closer than necessary.

He didn’t move away.

When they reached her classroom, Salma stopped, turning to face him. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The noise of the hallway blurred around them, lockers slamming, voices overlapping.

“I’ll see you later,” she said.

“Yeah,” Evan replied. “Later.”

She smiled again before heading inside.

Evan stood there a second longer than he meant to, watching the door close behind her. As he turned toward his own class, he became aware of something new — a quiet certainty settling in his chest.

Whatever had shifted over break hadn’t stayed there.

It had followed them back.

—

Salma Suleman January, Week 2 — Monday —

Coming back after winter break always felt strange, like slipping into a routine that no longer fit exactly the same way.

Salma closed her locker and turned — and there he was.

Evan smiled at her, easy and warm, and she felt it immediately. Not nerves. Not anticipation. Just comfort. The kind that settled into place without asking questions.

They walked together, talking about nothing and everything at once. She noticed the way he stayed beside her, how naturally his stride matched hers. When she bumped her shoulder into his, he laughed, and the sound made her grin wider.

It felt different now.

Not heavier. Just… clearer.

People passed them in the hallway, but Salma barely noticed. Her focus stayed on the space between them — the way it felt occupied now, claimed without discussion.

At her classroom door, she slowed.

“I’ll see you later,” she said, already knowing she would.

Evan nodded, eyes soft. “Later.”

As she slipped into her seat, Salma caught herself smiling at nothing in particular. The room around her filled with noise, with announcements and movement, but underneath it all was a steady awareness.

Something had changed.

The hotel room was too quiet for how far away it was.

Evan lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, phone balanced loosely in his other hand. The day had been full—scheduled, scenic, curated in the way his parents preferred—but now the lights were low and the noise of the city outside barely reached the window.

He scrolled without really thinking.

That was when he saw her.

Salma was tagged in a post from someone he vaguely recognized from school—something candid, taken mid-laugh. She looked warm, unposed, completely herself. Evan paused, thumb hovering, then tapped her name before he could overthink it.

Her page loaded.

It felt like stepping into a familiar room he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

There were selfies—soft smiles, messy hair, light catching her just right. Pictures with her family, arms thrown around shoulders, closeness that felt effortless. Food photos, plated beautifully but casually, like she’d taken them without worrying if they were good enough.

He smiled without realizing it.

Scrolled. Lingered. Let himself look.

Then—

Oh shit.

His thumb slipped.

The follow button changed instantly, the blue gone, replaced by Following.

Evan stared at the screen, heart jumping into his throat.

He considered unfollowing immediately. Pretending it hadn’t happened. He didn’t.

Before he could decide what to do next, a notification slid down from the top of his screen.

Salma Suleman requested to follow you.

The tightness in his chest loosened, replaced by something warmer. Lighter.

He accepted.

A moment passed. Then another notification.

Salma: hey you 👀 how’s winter break treating you?

Evan smiled, rolling onto his side, the hotel room fading into the background as he typed back.

—

Salma Suleman December, Week 4 — Thursday —

Salma was half-watching a movie she’d already seen, phone resting against her knee, when the notification popped up.

Evan Hayes started following you.

She blinked once.

Then smiled.

She didn’t hesitate. Requested to follow him back, curiosity humming just under the surface. When he accepted, her heart gave a small, pleased flutter she didn’t try to talk herself out of.

His page was private.

That felt right.

She waited a few seconds—just long enough not to seem overeager—then opened the chat.

hey you 👀 how’s winter break treating you?

The reply came quicker than she expected.

They talked easily, messages stacking up between them—about where they were, how cold it was, how weird it felt not seeing anyone from school. Evan sent a picture of the view outside his window. Salma sent one of her sister stealing snacks off a tray.

Time slipped.

The conversation slowed but didn’t stop, stretching comfortably into the night. Salma found herself smiling at her screen more than once, warmth settling in her chest that had nothing to do with the movie still playing in the background.

When she finally put her phone down, it was later than she meant it to be.

The house was quiet in a way it usually wasn’t.

Her parents had already left for work. Breana had rushed out earlier than usual, backpack half-zipped, complaining about how unfair it was that Salma got a late opening. The front door had barely clicked shut before the silence settled in—wide, unclaimed, almost curious.

Salma moved through it slowly.

She made herself breakfast she didn’t rush through. Let the kettle scream a little too long before turning it off. The morning stretched instead of snapping into shape, and she found herself humming without realizing it, the sound echoing softly off the kitchen walls.

She stopped at the counter.

Then—before she could think better of it—she sang.

Not loudly. Not carefully. Just enough to feel it leave her chest and fill the space around her. Her voice moved through the empty house, uncorrected, uninterrupted. She tried another line. Then another.

She listened.

The sound didn’t feel fragile. It didn’t feel borrowed. It felt like something sturdy she could lean into.

Salma laughed under her breath, surprised by herself.

She sang again, a little stronger this time, testing the edges of the room, the way her voice carried when she didn’t pull it back. Nothing cracked. Nothing went wrong. The house didn’t flinch.

When she finally stopped, the quiet that followed felt different—charged, almost pleased.

She checked the time and startled slightly, heart lighter than it had been all morning. Getting ready felt faster now, like she was moving to an internal rhythm only she could hear. By the time she stepped outside, the air felt sharper, brighter.

She went to school smiling for no reason she planned on explaining.

—

Evan Hayes December, Week 2 — Monday —

Evan noticed it immediately.

Salma was brighter than usual—not louder, not reckless, just… buoyant. She laughed quicker. Walked with more energy. Something about her felt freshly tuned, like she’d woken up in the right key.

He caught her eye across the courtyard and she grinned, easy and unguarded. The sight pulled a smile out of him before he had time to question it.

They fell into step together for a few minutes, talking about nothing important. He found himself listening less to the words and more to the way she spoke—animated, alive, holding something close to her chest without hiding it exactly.

“You’re in a good mood,” he said finally, unable to help himself.

Salma glanced at him, smile widening just a touch. “Yeah,” she said. “I am.”

She didn’t elaborate.

Evan waited a beat, then nodded, accepting it as it was. Whatever it was, it belonged to her. He could feel that instinctively.

When the bell rang and they split toward their classes, Salma walked away still smiling, that quiet happiness trailing behind her like warmth.

Evan watched her go, a strange certainty settling in his chest.

Something good had happened to her.

The library was warmer than the rest of the school.

Not in temperature exactly, but in the way sound softened there—voices lowered, footsteps muffled by carpet. Evan dropped his bag beside one of the long tables and slid into an empty chair, rolling his shoulders once like he was shedding the day.

A few people from their classes were already there. Someone had notes spread out, someone else was complaining quietly about finals like they might summon them early by speaking too loudly.

Salma arrived a few minutes later, hair tucked into a scarf, cheeks pink from the cold. She set her bag down across from him and smiled, easy and familiar, like this was already a habit.

They studied. Or tried to.

Evan explained something from economics; Salma corrected him once, gently, and he let her without arguing. At some point someone made a joke about how the library felt more stressful than the actual exams, and Evan laughed—really laughed—before catching himself.

Time slipped by unnoticed. People came and went. Chairs scraped softly as the group thinned until it was mostly just the two of them, books open but neglected.

“I’m starving,” Evan said eventually, more to the room than to her.

Salma didn’t even look up from her notes. “Yeah. That checks out.”

They packed up without discussing it further.

Outside, the air was sharp enough to wake him up fully. The sky had already started to darken, winter creeping in earlier every day. They walked side by side, hands tucked into sleeves, conversation drifting from school to nothing in particular.

They stopped somewhere small and warm, ordered food they didn’t overthink, shared fries like it was the most natural thing in the world. Evan found himself talking more than usual—about a song he’d been listening to, about a painting he hadn’t finished yet. Salma listened without rushing him, eyes bright with interest that didn’t feel interrogative.

When it was time to part ways, the moment came quietly.

They stood on the sidewalk, the glow from the windows behind them spilling onto the pavement. Salma adjusted her scarf. Evan shifted his bag on his shoulder.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Tomorrow.”

She smiled once more before turning away, heading down the street toward her house.

Evan watched until she disappeared from view, then started home himself, the cold feeling less sharp than it had before.

—

Salma Suleman December, Week 1 — Wednesday —

Salma liked studying in the library with Evan.

Not because they were especially productive—they weren’t—but because it felt calm. Familiar. Like sitting beside someone who didn’t need you to be anything more than what you already were.

She noticed it when the table emptied out around them and neither of them commented on it. When Evan explained something and didn’t tense up when she corrected him. When his laughter came easier, softer, like it surprised even him.

Leaving together felt natural, too.

The cold hit immediately, but she barely registered it. They walked and talked and ate, conversation weaving between subjects without sticking too long to any one thing. Salma teased him about his choice of food; he teased her back. It felt easy. Uncomplicated.

When they stopped and it was time to go their separate ways, Salma felt the moment before it arrived.

She didn’t fight it.

“See you tomorrow,” she said, smiling.

He smiled back, and for a second she thought about how much that smile had become part of her days without her noticing when it happened.

She walked home with her hands tucked into her sleeves, warmth lingering in her chest long after the cold seeped in.

The house was quieter than usual.

Thanksgiving had come and gone without much ceremony—dinner ordered in advance, eaten at the dining table because that was what the room was for. His parents had spoken about work, about travel, about people Evan didn’t know. Everything had stayed measured. Polite. Finished.

By the next afternoon, the house felt hollowed out by it.

Evan was in the living room when the doorbell rang. He didn’t expect anyone. For a moment, he considered letting it go unanswered, but then it rang again—lighter this time, impatient.

When he opened the door, Salma stood there holding two foil-wrapped containers stacked precariously in her arms.

Breana stood beside her, backpack slipping off one shoulder, eyes already scanning the house like she was cataloging it.

“Oh,” Evan said, caught off guard. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Salma said easily. “We had a lot of leftovers.”

Breana nodded solemnly. “A lot.”

Salma stepped forward, passing him the containers without waiting for permission. “My mom said you had to take some. Non-negotiable.”

Evan smiled despite himself. “Tell her thank you.”

“I will,” she said. “She already knows you will.”

Breana tilted her head, studying him with open curiosity. “Your hair looks cool like that,” she said. “Is it supposed to do that or did it just decide?”

Evan froze for half a second, then laughed quietly. “I think it decided.”

“Huh,” she said, satisfied. “It works.”

Something in his chest shifted—small, sharp, unexpected.

Salma shot her sister a look. “You can’t just analyze people out loud.”

“Yes I can,” Breana said. “I just did.”

Evan stepped aside to let them in, the warmth of the hallway giving way to the stillness inside. The house felt different with them in it—fuller, louder, alive in a way it hadn’t been in days.

They didn’t stay long. Salma explained what was in each container, Breana corrected her twice, and Evan listened more than he spoke. He didn’t explain where his parents were. Salma didn’t ask.

When they finally left, the door clicked shut behind them and the quiet returned—but it didn’t settle the same way.

Evan looked down at the foil in his hands.

For the first time all weekend, the house smelled like something warm.

—

Salma Suleman November, Week 4 — Friday —

Thanksgiving leftovers were a love language.

Salma knew that. Her family always sent people home with containers whether they asked or not. It wasn’t about politeness—it was about care. Making sure no one went back to an empty kitchen if you could help it.

Evan’s door opened after the second ring.

He looked surprised to see her. Tired, maybe. But he smiled anyway, that familiar, gentle curve that made her chest loosen.

She handed him the food before he could say no.

Breana, predictably, took it upon herself to comment on his hair.

Salma winced. Evan laughed.

The inside of his house was quiet in a way Salma wasn’t used to—clean lines, careful spacing, nothing out of place. She felt it immediately, the restraint baked into the walls. It made her want to speak softer, move slower.

So she did.

They didn’t linger. That wasn’t the point. She explained what they’d brought, made sure he knew which one needed reheating, and avoided asking questions she could feel hovering in the air.

Breana, on the other hand, asked none of the important ones and all of the irrelevant ones.

“Do you have a dog?” “No.” “Okay.”

When they stepped back outside, Salma glanced once more at the door before it closed.

She hoped he knew the food wasn’t an obligation.

By October, lunch had started to feel different.

Not quieter. Just easier.

Evan slid into a seat at the end of the table without really thinking about it, tray balanced in one hand, phone in the other. Someone was already talking about costumes—apparently there was a debate happening about whether it was acceptable to wear something ironic versus something genuinely scary. Evan listened, amused, nodding along, surprised by how natural it felt to be there.

Salma was across from him, legs tucked up on the bench, hair pulled back with a headband decorated in tiny plastic pumpkins. She was mid-argument, gesturing with one hand while the other hovered protectively over a carton of fries.

“That’s not a costume,” she said firmly. “That’s just clothes with intent.”

Someone laughed. Someone else protested.

Evan smiled before he realized he was doing it.

He reached for a fry without asking. She glanced up, caught him in the act, and slid the carton closer instead of pulling it away.

“Bold,” she said. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

“I thought we were past that stage,” he replied.

She snorted. “We are not past that stage.”

He took another fry anyway.

Around them, conversation overlapped—plans for haunted houses, siblings dragging people trick-or-treating, parents pretending they didn’t care. Evan chimed in more than he meant to. Someone asked what he was doing later and he answered without rehearsing it first.

“Probably just… walking around,” he said. “Seeing what’s going on.”

Salma’s eyes lit up. “We’re doing that too.”

We. The word landed softly and stayed there.

The bell rang too soon. Chairs scraped back, backpacks were slung over shoulders. Evan stood with the rest of them, already moving with the group as they filtered out into the hallway.

Someone cracked a joke about bad candy ratios. Salma laughed—really laughed—and Evan felt it in his chest, warm and sudden.

He laughed too, the sound coming easier than it usually did.

For a moment, it didn’t feel like school. Or expectations. Or anything he needed to be careful with.

It just felt like October.

—

Salma Suleman October, Week 3 — Friday —

Halloween always made school feel less serious.

Teachers pretended to be stricter than they were. People showed up in costumes that barely passed the dress code. The air felt charged, like something fun might happen just because it could.

Salma dropped her tray onto the table and immediately had to defend her fries.

Evan didn’t even ask.

She should’ve said something. She didn’t.

It was strange how normal it felt now—him sitting there, laughing at the right moments, adding comments that made her friends look at him twice before grinning. He wasn’t loud. He didn’t take over the conversation. He just… fit.

Someone asked about plans again, and when Evan said he was just walking around later, Salma found herself smiling.

“That’s what we’re doing,” she said, like it was obvious.

And maybe it was.

They packed up together when the bell rang, drifting into the hallway in a loose cluster. Someone made a terrible pun about ghosts and GPA requirements. Salma laughed so hard she had to grab the strap of her bag to steady herself.

Evan laughed too, softer but just as real, and for a split second she caught him looking at her like he couldn’t quite believe he was part of this.

She nudged him with her elbow. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he said, still smiling. “I’m good.”

They kept walking, voices overlapping, the hallway buzzing with costumes and plans and noise.

Salma laughed again, the sound bright and unguarded, and didn’t think twice about how easy it felt to have him there.

The room didn’t look like a classroom anymore.

The desks had been pushed back, chairs arranged in loose clusters meant to encourage movement. Someone had dimmed the overhead lights just enough to make it feel intentional. A stack of printed name tags sat on the table near the door, along with a sign that read Professional Networking Simulation in block letters.

Evan adjusted the collar of his shirt and resisted the urge to tug at his sleeves.

Everyone felt louder when they were pretending to be confident.

The DECA advisor paced the room, reminding them to circulate, to make eye contact, to introduce themselves clearly. Evan nodded along, already knowing the script. He could do this. He always did. Smile. Handshake. A few rehearsed sentences about interests and goals. Polite curiosity.

The door opened behind him.

The smell hit first—warm sugar, something baked, something real.

Conversation faltered for half a second as a small group of students entered, balancing trays and boxes. The contrast was immediate. Aprons instead of blazers. Laughter that hadn’t been practiced.

And then Evan saw her.

Salma stood near the door, holding a tray of pastries, her sleeves pushed up, hair pulled back loosely. She scanned the room with quick, assessing eyes—not nervous, just orienting herself. Like she was stepping into a space she hadn’t asked for but wasn’t intimidated by either.

Their eyes met.

Recognition flickered across her face, quick and genuine, and she smiled.

Relief loosened something in Evan’s chest before he could stop it.

She made her way over, stopping in front of him as she set the tray down on the nearest table.

“Hey,” she said. “I was hoping I’d see at least one familiar face.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Same.”

She glanced around the room, taking in the clusters of students already circulating, the forced conversations, the careful posture. “So this is what DECA does.”

“Apparently,” Evan said. “We’re networking.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You look very… networked.”

He smiled before he thought about it. “You look like you actually want to be here.”

Salma laughed, quick and soft, and the sound felt out of place in the room—in the best way. “We just baked stuff. Then they told us we had to stay and ‘engage.’”

“That sounds about right.”

She picked up one of the pastries and nudged it toward him. “Try one. For authenticity.”

He took it, their fingers brushing briefly, and for a second the room fell away. “For authenticity,” he repeated, amused.

Someone across the room cleared their throat loudly, trying to get everyone’s attention. The simulation resumed, voices rising again, the hum returning.

Salma stepped back, already shifting into motion, tray balanced easily against her hip. “Good luck,” she said. “Try not to look too professional.”

“I’ll do my best,” Evan said.

She smiled at him once more before turning away, blending back into movement and conversation, her presence leaving the room warmer than it had been before.

Evan stood there a moment longer than necessary, pastry untouched in his hand.

Then someone approached him with a practiced smile, and he slipped back into place.

—

Salma Suleman September, Week 3 — Thursday —

The DECA room felt like a set.

Everything was arranged just a little too carefully—chairs angled for conversation, name tags lined up like props. Salma balanced the tray against her arm and followed the rest of the group inside, already clocking how stiff everyone looked.

This wasn’t her space. That was fine.

She scanned the room anyway, instinctively searching for something familiar. A face. A reason to breathe easier.

Then she saw Evan.

He stood near one of the tables, shoulders straight, expression composed, looking like he belonged there in a way that surprised her. Not stiff exactly—just contained. Focused. Different.

When their eyes met, she felt the tension in her shoulders ease.

She headed straight for him.

Talking to Evan felt easy. It always did. Their conversation slipped into place without effort, a small pocket of normal in a room full of performance. She caught the way his smile lingered a beat longer than expected, the way he relaxed when he laughed.

It made her look at him differently.

Oh, she thought. This is who he is here.

Not bad. Just… layered.

She handed him a pastry, joked about the setup, let herself enjoy the familiarity of the moment before the room pulled her back into motion. There were trays to refill, people to acknowledge, obligations to fulfill.

Still, as she moved through the space, Salma found herself glancing back at Evan once or twice—watching him shake hands, nod along, play his part with quiet competence.

He caught her looking once and smiled, small and real, before turning back to the conversation he was in.

Later, when they finally packed up to leave, the room felt colder again.

Salma adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, already thinking about what she needed to prep for next week.

But as she stepped out into the hallway, she realized something had shifted—just slightly.

Evan wasn’t just someone she noticed anymore.

DECA meetings always smelled faintly of dry erase markers and coffee that had been sitting too long. Evan sat two rows back, notebook open, pen resting between his fingers without moving. Someone at the front of the room was talking about regional competitions—numbers, categories, leadership roles. The words blended together into something polished and impressive and far away.

He nodded when others nodded. Took notes when it felt expected.

The room was too bright. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flattening everything into the same pale shade. Evan shifted in his seat, gaze drifting despite himself—past the whiteboard, past the advisor’s shoulder—to the long window lining the far wall of the classroom.

Outside, the world moved differently.

Salma was there.

She sat on the low brick wall near the entrance, a small group of friends clustered around her. Her backpack rested at her feet, one strap twisted in on itself. She laughed at something someone said, her head tipping back just slightly, hands moving as she talked. Not loud. Not quiet. Just… easy.

Evan didn’t know why his chest tightened.

He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about this. About her. About the way she seemed to exist without effort, like she hadn’t been told how to behave or when to hold back. About how he’d started noticing her like this—through fragments and passing moments—ever since summer, as if she’d slipped into the edges of his life and stayed there.

A memory surfaced without asking permission: Salma laughing in the hallway near the lockers, her voice carrying even after she’d moved on. Salma hunched over a cafeteria table, sketching something absentmindedly on a napkin while she waited for her friends. Salma passing him on the stairs once, their eyes meeting for half a second before she looked away like it hadn’t meant anything.

She kept appearing. Not intentionally. Not for him.

That might’ve been the worst part.

Inside the classroom, someone asked a question. Evan didn’t hear it. His focus stayed fixed on the window, on the way Salma tucked a curl behind her ear, on the warmth of her presence against the cool distance of the room he was sitting in. On how far she felt from this place—from the rows of chairs, the rehearsed futures, the version of himself he kept presenting.

“Evan.”

He startled.

“Evan Hayes.” The DECA advisor’s voice cut cleanly through the room. “Can I have your attention?”

Heat crept up his neck as he straightened, eyes snapping forward. The window slipped out of view, replaced by the whiteboard, the agenda, the structure closing back in around him.

“Yes,” he said quickly. “Sorry.”

The meeting continued. Evan wrote down what he was supposed to write down.

But something in him stayed outside.

—

Salma Suleman September, Week 3 — Tuesday —

The weather had finally decided what it wanted to be. Warm, but not heavy. The kind of afternoon that made standing outside feel earned.

Salma perched on the brick wall near the entrance, one knee pulled up, listening as one of her friends complained about a quiz they were definitely going to fail. She laughed, shaking her head, adding her own commentary without thinking too hard about it. Cooking club was later. She still needed to stop by the store for flour. Her dad had texted her about dinner.

It was a good day. Ordinary. Comfortable.

She leaned back on her hands and tilted her face toward the sun for a second longer than necessary. Somewhere behind her, doors opened and closed as students passed in and out of the building. Voices overlapped, faded, returned.

For no clear reason, Salma paused.

The laughter around her softened, slipping into the background. A strange awareness brushed over her—like the feeling of almost forgetting something important, or realizing you’d been called without hearing your name.

She glanced back at the school.

The windows reflected the sky, rows of glass giving nothing away. Just classrooms, movement, lives continuing behind them. Whatever the feeling was, it slipped through her fingers before she could name it.

“Salma?” someone said. “You good?”

“Yeah,” she said easily, turning back with a smile. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

The moment passed. The conversation picked up where it left off. The afternoon kept moving.

Evan

He’s mid-laugh when someone from across the sidewalk calls his name.

It takes him a second to place the voice. Then he sees them — familiar faces, plus one that doesn’t belong to the pattern yet.

She’s standing just off to the side, watching more than speaking. He recognizes her immediately and feels that small shift he’s been pretending not to notice all week.

Introductions happen quickly. Names traded easily.

“Evan,” someone says. “This is Salma. She just moved in by you.”

He nods. “Yeah. Across the street.”

It comes out natural. Familiar.

Someone mentions school starting soon.

“Same one, right?” someone asks.

“Yeah,” Evan says. Then, without thinking, he adds, “People here know everything before you do.”

It’s meant as a joke. It lands like one.

Salma laughs — real, surprised.

For a second, everything feels lighter.

Salma

She expected him to be quiet.

That’s what catches her off guard — how easily he speaks, how naturally the joke comes. He sounds like someone who’s been here long enough to know the place and still find it a little funny.

When she laughs, she feels it register between them. Small, but undeniable.

“Oh,” she thinks, recalibrating. So that’s you.

The group shifts again. Conversation moves on. The night keeps going.

But later, walking home, Salma realizes something has changed.

Before, he was just the boy across the street. Now, he’s the one who made her laugh.

Salma

It starts small.

A familiar house she passes without thinking. A boy she recognizes at the grocery store because now there’s a reason to. The quiet acknowledgment of oh, you live there too.

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t wave. Just clocks it and moves on.

Sometimes she sees him on the sidewalk when she’s biking past, hair pulled back, music in her ears. Sometimes it’s his car in the driveway when she’s carrying groceries inside. The neighborhood feels lived in now, stitched together by repetition.

It’s nice. Easy.

He becomes part of the background in the same way summer itself does — present, consistent, unremarkable in the best way.

By the time she mentions him offhandedly to her sister, it’s already casual.

“The guy across the street?” Breana asks.

“Yeah,” Salma says, like that’s all there is to say.

And for her, it mostly is.

Evan

It doesn’t stay small for him.

He notices her at the store and then notices how often that keeps happening. On the corner by the park. Outside her house in the evenings, light spilling warm onto the lawn.

He doesn’t know her schedule, but his body starts anticipating it anyway.

She exists now in places he already occupies — not interrupting, just present. Like proof that his world is larger than he thought it was.

Sometimes he catches himself looking for her without meaning to. Sometimes he hears laughter from across the street and knows where it’s coming from without checking.

He tells himself it’s nothing.

Just proximity. Just coincidence. Just summer doing what summer does.

Still, the days feel marked now — before and after noticing.