It had begun to snow.
Not heavily — not enough to cover the ground — but the flakes drifted down like tired thoughts, too light to settle. Andrew walked the edge of the courtyard, hands in his pockets, scarf pulled tight against the wind. Students rushed past him, laughter trailing behind like steam. He walked slowly, unbothered by the cold.
Emma had smiled at him earlier.
A small thing. Barely a glance in passing, her hand brushing his sleeve by accident, her mouth forming a quick "Good morning."
He had carried that smile with him all day. Like a letter folded into his chest pocket. It didn't mean much. But to Andrew, it was everything.
He sat beneath the sycamore again, the one by the western path, its bare limbs now heavy with frost. This was the tree they used to pass every afternoon — the one Emma called their "invisible bench" when they were too tired to reach the gardens. She hadn't stopped here in days. But Andrew still did.
He took out his notebook.
It was filled now — not just with sketches or half-written thoughts, but with details: the way her hand curved when she wrote, the songs she used to hum when she didn't know he was listening, the scent of her books, the one freckle under her left eye. Not obsession — remembrance. A quiet archiving of someone you loved more than the world taught you to show.
He didn't want to forget.
Not even the small things.
A group of students passed, laughing loud. One of them was Jason.
Andrew froze.
He hadn't seen him this close before — only heard about him in fragments, half-nervous sentences from Emma, in the way her voice changed when she mentioned him.
Jason walked with the ease of someone used to being followed. His coat undone despite the cold, a cigarette behind his ear, a book he hadn't read tucked under his arm. He looked like trouble. The kind girls didn't recover from. The kind boys tried not to envy.
Andrew didn't move.
Jason didn't notice him. Why would he?
That night, Andrew stayed late at the library, long after the fires were dimmed and the hall echoed with emptiness. He sat at the back, between the Latin texts and forgotten poetry, a place where no one looked for anything anymore.
He opened a fresh notebook.
The first page, he left blank.
The second, he wrote a letter.
> Emma,
This isn't something you'll read. Not because I don't want you to — but because I never learned how to place what I feel into your hands without it becoming heavy.
I've tried to show you gently. In walking with you. In silence. In staying beside you even when your thoughts drifted somewhere else. I never wanted to hold you back — only to walk beside you, as long as you'd let me.
If you ever wonder why I didn't say more, it's because I loved you too much to make it harder.
You don't owe me anything. But I want you to know — you were seen. You were understood. And you were loved in the kindest way I knew how.
Always.
— Andrew
He didn't sign it with flourish. Just a name. Just enough.
Then he tore the page out and folded it once. He stared at it for a while. Then tucked it into the back of his coat pocket and didn't think about what he'd do with it.
The next morning, snow had gathered on the chapel roof. Small footprints curved across the garden path, disappearing where the frost grew thickest. Andrew walked with his hands deep in his coat, breath clouding with each step.
He saw her near the greenhouse — Emma — standing with her hands tucked beneath her arms, her hair pulled into a loose braid. She was alone. Not reading, not writing. Just… thinking.
Andrew almost called her name.
Almost.
Instead, he turned around.
Not because he didn't want to see her — but because he did. And sometimes love meant disappearing just before you ruined something.