Ep:3

...Quiet Patterns...

There was something different in the air.

The next few days passed like pages fluttering in the wind—quick, soundless, and strangely heavy. Williams kept his usual distance. He still watched her, still sat in his regular seat. But something had shifted between them, even if it hadn’t surfaced on the outside.

It was in the way she paused longer when she passed the bookshelves. The way her gaze lingered on the rows, unfocused—as if searching for something, or someone. The folded note was still in his pocket. He’d read it at least a hundred times.

"Sometimes I feel like I’m not alone, even when I am."

It looped through his thoughts during practice, at night, in the quiet moments between classes. A single sentence that felt like it had been peeled from his own ribs. Was it a coincidence? Or was it something else? Something she had left on purpose.

He hadn’t left another bookmark since. Maybe he didn’t want to ruin whatever fragile line had just begun to thread between them. Maybe he wanted to see if she would make a move now.

But Tessa didn’t move the way other people did.

She flowed.

Rain came down on Thursday. Heavy, cold, and soaking into everything. Campus was a maze of umbrellas and wet footprints. Williams skipped practice. The world outside felt muted, and he couldn’t bring himself to pretend to be present.

He found her again in the far wing of the library. She was alone, as always, headphones in, eyes on the book resting in her lap. The rain tapped against the window beside her like fingers drumming an anxious rhythm.

He stood hidden between the stacks, watching her. She looked tired. Or maybe she was just relaxed in a way he rarely saw. Her posture had softened, her shoulders rounded forward, her lips slightly parted in thought.

He wanted to know what she was reading.

More than that, he wanted to know how it made her feel.

Was it pulling her in? Hurting her? Healing her?

He stepped back, deeper into the aisle. If he stayed too long, he’d be noticed. He’d made that mistake once—too many seconds staring, too close to her line of vision.

But then she did something she had never done before.

She looked up.

Right toward him.

Not past him. Not through him.

At him.

Williams froze. His breath caught like a stone in his throat. Her eyes—dark, distant—didn’t widen. They didn’t blink in surprise or flinch. She simply held his gaze. Still. Calm.

He didn’t move.

He couldn’t tell how long they stood like that—two people on opposite sides of an invisible wall. But then, just as slowly as she had looked up, Tessa turned her attention back to her book.

No expression. No smile. No frown. Just a return to stillness.

But Williams felt like the floor had shifted beneath him.

She’d seen him.

And she let it happen.

That night, the dream came again.

He was back in that small, empty studio—the one on the third floor, where the mirrors were cracked at the edges and the floorboards creaked beneath careful feet.

She was there, dancing.

Not facing him. Not acknowledging him. Just moving.

Her hair was damp with sweat. Her hoodie was off, a dark tank top clinging to the lines of her back. She moved slowly, like water unraveling, like smoke trailing upward. Music played—something low, something aching. He couldn’t name the melody. Only feel it in his chest.

He stepped forward, one silent foot at a time. She didn’t stop. Didn’t turn.

But then—her head tilted slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him in the mirror.

Her lips parted.

Her breath caught.

And her body stilled.

He reached for her.

And woke up.

Friday passed in a blur of rain and grey clouds. He didn't see her. Not in the library. Not on the walkway she always took between classes. Not at the coffee shop by the gym. The absence sank heavy in his gut. It was absurd, maybe, but real.

By evening, his nerves were taut with restlessness. He walked through the campus twice, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, hoodie pulled low over his face. The rain had stopped, but the cold hung in the air like a secret waiting to be told.

Finally, he ended up at the studio.

The one she sometimes used.

The building was nearly empty. Lights were dim. The hall echoed faintly with the thud of shoes on linoleum and the far-off buzz of vending machines.

He reached the third floor. Pushed the door open.

And she was there.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look surprised. As if she’d been waiting.

She stood at the center of the room, back to him, her body half-wrapped in the reflection of the mirrors. Her headphones were around her neck. A speaker hummed quietly on the floor.

Williams didn’t speak.

Neither did she.

He leaned against the wall. Slowly slid down to sit on the floor.

She turned on the music.

Low. Twisting. A sound that felt like being alone in the dark.

And then she moved.

It was the first time he’d seen her dance up close. Really seen it.

She wasn’t polished. She wasn’t perfect.

But she felt everything.

Her body twisted with a kind of rage and release, her feet hitting the ground hard, her arms slicing through the air with precision that wasn’t taught but born.. She moved like the music was in her blood.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

She didn’t look at him once.

But when the music stopped, and the room fell quiet, she turned.

Their eyes locked.

Her face was flushed, chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to her neck. But she didn’t speak.

And neither did he.

Instead, she walked across the floor.

Closer.

Until she stood in front of him.

Still no words.

She crouched, tilted her head slightly, studying him with that same unreadable expression she always wore. But now, it felt intentional. A test.