The days after the dance felt like a whirlwind. Mia and I had transitioned from classmates to friends, and now, the prospect of something more loomed between us like a beautifully wrapped gift waiting to be unwrapped. Our conversations became deeper, punctuated with laughter and shared glances that lingered just a moment too long. I found myself looking forward to our study sessions, where the lines of academic partnership blurred into something more personal.
One Friday afternoon, as we sat in the library surrounded by stacks of books, I could sense a shift in the air. Mia had been unusually quiet, her brow furrowed in thought as she doodled in her notebook, her pencil tapping rhythmically against the page. I wanted to ask her what was wrong, but the words felt stuck in my throat. Instead, I watched her, trying to decipher the emotions playing on her face.
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