The afternoon sun was blazing like it wanted to burn the city down, but somehow, the courtyard felt calmer. I spotted Clara sitting on the fountain edge, head buried in her notes like she was trying to memorize the human body one neuron at a time.
"Hey," I called, dropping my bag beside her.
She looked up, hair falling over her eyes, and squinted at me. "Oh, hey. You're late."
"I prefer fashionably late," I said, plopping down beside her. My sketchbook was under my arm, half-doodles, half-notes. I probably looked ridiculous, but Clara didn't care. She never did.
She laughed, that sound like wind through leaves, and I felt my chest lighten. "Fashionably late. Right. Excuses, excuses."
We fell into our usual rhythm—teasing, joking, small touches of familiarity. I watched her fingers trace her notes, the way she absentmindedly twirled a pencil. I had drawn her like this before, and yet, every time, she looked completely different. Alive.
"So," she said suddenly, lifting her head. "Do you ever think about… the future?"
I froze a little, tracing the rim of my coffee cup. "All the time. Art, NYPD… I don't know. It's messy, complicated. Sometimes I wonder if I'll screw it all up."
"You always think that," she said softly. "But I believe you. You've got it in you."
Her words hit harder than I expected. I wanted to say something clever, something that showed her she mattered, but I couldn't. Instead, I just nodded and smiled, which probably didn't make any sense at all.
We lapsed into a comfortable silence. Around us, the city moved on without caring. I doodled her face again, not perfectly, just lines and shapes that somehow captured her essence. She glanced at it and grinned.
"You never stop, do you?" she asked.
"Never," I admitted. "It's like breathing."
She laughed softly, shaking her head. "You're ridiculous."
---
Class was a blur. I scribbled notes half-heartedly, doodled in the margins, and tried not to drift too far into my own thoughts about her, about us, about everything.
Afterward, I found her back at the fountain, sitting exactly where she always did. I leaned over, peeking at her notebook. "You're still working?"
"Always," she said with a grin. "It's not like I have a choice if I want to pass."
"You'll pass," I said, brushing my fingers over the edge of her book. "You always do. Even when you complain, you'll nail it."
She looked up, eyes soft. "Thanks, Rudra."
I felt my heart do that stupid little jump it always did around her. "It's nothing," I said, but it was everything.
We wandered toward the art building, talking about nothing in particular—professors, assignments, weird things we'd seen on campus. And then, of course, the conversation drifted to the future again.
"Do you ever think about ten years from now?" she asked, kicking a pebble.
"All the time," I said. "Honestly, it scares me. What if I mess it up? What if I can't do everything I want? Art… law enforcement… life in general."
"Messing up is okay," she said. "You just have to keep trying. And I'll be here."
I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to tell her about the tiny velvet box in my pocket, about the ring, about how I couldn't imagine my life without her. But I didn't. Not yet.
We stopped near the fountain again, watching the water sparkle in the afternoon sun. I reached into my pocket and felt the pendant she had given me. Small, delicate, a constant reminder that even in chaos, some things were steady.
She noticed my fingers brushing it. "Still carrying that around?"
"Yeah," I said, shrugging. "It's… comforting."
Her smile softened. "I know what you mean."
We were quiet for a while, just sitting there, hands close but not touching, talking about nothing, and it felt perfect. Even the city around us, with its noise and rush, faded into the background.
By late afternoon, I finally spoke again. "You know, sometimes I think about everything we've been through. All the years, all the small stuff… it's ridiculous how important it all feels."
"Important?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes," I said, smiling nervously. "You're… important. You make life make sense, even when it doesn't."
She reached over and bumped my shoulder lightly. "You're a sap," she said, but her smile gave her away.
And just like that, the day felt lighter. The city, the noise, the impossible mess of the world—it all felt bearable because she was there, laughing at me, nudging me, grounding me in the simplest way.
We parted briefly for class, but my mind kept going back to her. Back to her laugh, her eyes, the way she somehow made everything okay. And I thought, not for the first time, about the evening to come. About the ring tucked away, about finally saying something I'd been holding in for years.
Because some things—some people—were worth holding onto. No matter what.
And Clara… she was worth everything.