The night Leonard asked me to be his girlfriend, I lay awake longer than I expected.
My phone rested on my chest, his last message glowing softly on the screen.
Goodnight, my girl.
I reread it over and over, my heart fluttering each time. I told myself not to overthink it. After all, I had said yes—but my yes wasn't full. Not yet.
Leonard was my first boyfriend. My first real step into love. And yet, in my heart, I hadn't fully opened the door. I treated the relationship like something fragile, temporary—something I could step away from if it became too much. I didn't realize then that love doesn't like half-measures.
Leonard, on the other hand, gave himself freely.
From the moment we became official, he pulled me closer. He wanted to spend time together, to walk me to class, to sit beside me during lectures. He introduced me proudly to his friends, his arm resting casually around my shoulders, his fingers tracing small circles against my skin when he thought I wasn't paying attention.
Each touch made my heart race.
But instead of leaning into it, I pulled back.
Whenever people asked about us, I brushed it off.
"We're just talking," I would say.
"It's not serious."
Leonard noticed.
One afternoon, as we sat on a bench beneath a wide tree near the faculty building, he turned to me suddenly.
"Why do you hide me?" he asked.
"I don't," I said quickly.
"You do," he replied gently. "You act like I don't exist."
His words stung because they were true.
"I'm just not used to this," I whispered. "This is all new to me."
He sighed and took my hand, his thumb brushing across my knuckles.
"I'm not asking you to be perfect," he said. "I just want you to choose me."
I nodded, but inside, fear held me back.
I didn't know how to love properly. I didn't know how to show affection, how to reassure someone who needed reassurance. I didn't know that love requires effort, not just feelings. And Leonard paid the price for my ignorance.
Still, he stayed.
Even when I replied late to his messages.
Even when I canceled plans.
Even when I acted distant.
At night, he would call me anyway.
"Just wanted to hear your voice," he'd say.
Sometimes we talked for hours. Sometimes I stayed quiet, listening to him breathe, listening to the comfort in his silence. There were moments when the tension between us felt heavy—when his voice softened, when he said my name like it meant something sacred.
Once, late at night, he said quietly, "I wish you were here."
My heart skipped.
"What would you do if I was?" I asked.
He paused.
"I'd hold you," he said. "Nothing more. Just… hold you."
That scared me more than anything else.
Months passed. September melted into October. October into November. December came quietly. Leonard endured my moods, my distance, my emotional walls. He complained sometimes—not angrily, but with sadness.
"You don't fight for us," he said once. "And I don't know how long I can fight alone."
When school went on break, I disappeared.
I didn't call. I didn't text. I told myself I needed space, but the truth was—I was afraid of how much he mattered to me. I thought if I let go early, it wouldn't hurt later.
I was wrong.
When we resumed school and I saw Leonard again, something inside me broke open. He looked different—quieter, guarded. And suddenly, the thought of losing him terrified me.
That night, I sent him a message I hadn't planned.
Hey. I miss you. I think… I still like you.
His reply came almost immediately.
I never stopped liking you.
From that moment, the distance began to close again.
By January, Leonard was back by my side. We talked more. Walked more. Laughed more. And slowly, I started letting myself feel.
One evening, after a long day, we sat together in his room. The lights were dim, the air calm. He sat beside me, close enough that our knees touched. I could feel the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
"Beauty," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair away from my face.
I looked up at him, my heart racing.
He leaned in slowly, giving me time to pull away. I didn't.
Our lips met softly at first—hesitant, exploratory. Then deeper. His hand rested at my waist, grounding, warm. I felt dizzy, overwhelmed, safe all at once.
When we finally pulled apart, my forehead rested against his.
"I don't want to rush you," he whispered. "But I want you."
I swallowed.
"I'm trying," I said honestly.
He smiled softly.
"I know. And I'm here."
But just as I began to feel secure, whispers started to reach me—rumors of Leonard and another girl. They crept into my thoughts, poisoning the fragile trust we were rebuilding.
I confronted him. We argued. We made up. Then argued again.
January bled into February.
We were learning, painfully, that love is not just about saying yes once—it's about choosing yes, even when fear, doubt, and pride stand in the way.
And neither of us knew yet how hard that choice would become.