I didn't plan to ask.
The thought came quietly, sometime between classes, while I was walking across campus with my bag slung too loosely over my shoulder. The lecture I'd just left still lingered in fragments in my head, but I wasn't thinking about it anymore. I was thinking about the space after.
The empty hours.
I stopped near the steps outside one of the buildings, the same place we used to wait for each other without needing a reason. Students passed around me in steady streams, conversations overlapping, shoes scuffing against concrete. Everyone seemed to be moving somewhere with purpose.
I wasn't.
That was when it became clear to me how long it had been since I'd last asked her for time.
Not accepted time.
Not adjusted to it.
Asked.
I took out my phone.
Typed her name.
Stared at the screen longer than necessary, watching the cursor blink like it was counting something down. I deleted the first message I wrote. Too casual. Then the second. Too careful.
Finally, I typed:
Are you free later today?
I sent it before I could overthink it again.
The reply didn't come immediately.
I told myself that meant nothing. She was busy. She always was. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and kept walking, letting the campus decide my direction.
By the time I reached the library, my phone buzzed.
Maybe. What's up?
Maybe.
The word felt heavier than it should have.
I typed:
I was thinking we could spend some time together. Properly.
I stared at the message after sending it, suddenly aware of how exposed it sounded. There was no excuse attached. No task. No practical reason.
Just time.
Her reply came slower this time.
Today's kind of packed.
I stopped walking.
Around me, students flowed past without noticing. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed loudly, the sound cutting through my thoughts.
That's okay, I typed. Another day is fine too.
I meant it.
I also didn't.
This week's a bit unpredictable, she replied. Maybe after things settle?
I leaned against the railing near the entrance and closed my eyes briefly.
After things settle.
I'd been hearing that phrase a lot lately.
Sure, I sent back. Just let me know.
She replied with a small apology. I responded with reassurance. The conversation ended neatly, politely, without friction.
That was the problem.
Later that evening, I saw her briefly between commitments.
She was walking fast, bag slung over her shoulder, phone pressed to her ear. When she noticed me, she stopped, smiling with the same warmth she always had.
"Hey," she said. "Sorry about earlier."
"It's fine," I said automatically.
She hesitated. "I didn't want you to think I was avoiding you."
"I didn't."
That was true.
What I thought instead was worse.
We stood there for a moment, suspended, neither of us quite sure what the other was waiting for.
"I really do want to spend time with you," she said. "Just… things are a lot right now."
"I know," I said.
She searched my face. "You're okay, right?"
I nodded.
She smiled, relieved. "Good."
She glanced at her phone again. "I have to go. I'll text you later."
"Yeah."
She waved lightly and walked away, already shifting her attention elsewhere.
I stood there longer than I needed to, watching her disappear into the crowd.
I wasn't angry.
That surprised me.
I felt something quieter instead — a dull recognition that asking had changed something, even though nothing outwardly had gone wrong.
That night, as I sat at my desk pretending to work, I realized how carefully we'd been arranging our lives around each other lately. How often I'd told myself that patience was the same as understanding.
But patience, I was learning, could also become a way of waiting without being invited.
A few days later, I tried again.
Not directly. Carefully.
I suggested lunch after class, choosing a time I knew she was free. She smiled when I brought it up, nodded immediately.
"That sounds nice," she said. "Let's do that."
Relief came faster than I expected.
The day arrived.
I waited near the building where her class ended, watching students file out in uneven groups. She emerged a little later, spotting me easily, her smile genuine.
We walked together toward the café near campus.
For a while, it felt normal again.
We talked about classes, about something funny that had happened during her meeting the previous day. She laughed, leaning slightly toward me, the familiar rhythm returning just enough to be convincing.
But something was off.
She checked the time once. Then again.
Halfway through our meal, her phone buzzed.
She glanced at it, then at me. "I'm really sorry," she said. "I forgot I promised someone I'd help with something."
I nodded before she finished the sentence.
"It's okay."
She paused. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
She hesitated, then smiled gratefully. "Thank you."
We stood to leave earlier than planned.
Outside, she turned to me. "We'll do this properly soon. I promise."
I believed she meant it.
I also knew that promises like that were easier to make than to keep.
As she walked away, I felt the weight of the question I hadn't asked:
How long is 'soon' before it becomes never?
That night, I lay awake replaying the day.
Not the rejection — because it hadn't been one.
Not the interruption — because it had been reasonable.
What stayed with me was how easy it had been for time to choose something else.
For the first time, I wondered whether asking for time was already a sign that something essential had shifted. Whether closeness that needed to be scheduled could still survive on intention alone.
I didn't resent her.
I didn't blame her.
I just felt, with unsettling clarity, that something had gone wrong — not because she had said no, but because neither of us had noticed how difficult it had become to say yes.