If there was one thing Liyana learned quickly about Arman, it was this: he was exhausting.
Not because he talked too much—though he did—but because he existed like a question mark. He never stood still emotionally. He leaned against walls instead of sitting on chairs. He ordered food without looking at menus. He laughed at jokes halfway through hearing them, as if predicting the punchline gave him an unfair advantage over disappointment.
And somehow, against her better judgment, he kept appearing.
At the café where she corrected exam papers, he showed up claiming the coffee there tasted "appropriately hopeless."
At the bookshop near the university, he hovered near the poetry section, loudly complaining that poets were just emotionally unemployed philosophers.
Once, impossibly, he appeared at a bus stop she used only when she was avoiding people.
"This is stalking," she told him.
"This is coincidence," he replied. "Stalking requires effort."
She rolled her eyes. "You say that like it's a defense."
Despite herself, she laughed.
They argued constantly. About everything. About whether comedy or tragedy was more honest. About whether people changed or simply revealed themselves more clearly over time. About whether love was a decision or a disease.
"Love is just misunderstanding with better marketing," Arman declared one evening as they walked along the river.
"That's the most cynical thing I've heard all week," Liyana said. "And I read political essays."
"See?" he said triumphantly. "You agree with me."
She stopped walking. "I absolutely do not."
He stopped too, turning to face her. The river reflected city lights in broken pieces, like it couldn't decide what to keep whole.
"Then what do you believe?" he asked.
She thought for a moment. "I think people ruin things by being afraid of saying what they want."
He tilted his head. "Dangerous theory."
"It's only dangerous if it's true."
Something passed between them—something quiet, electric, unsettling. Arman looked away first.
That should have warned her.
Their friendship—if that was what it was—became routine. Comfortable. Suspiciously so. He knew how she took her tea. She knew when he was pretending to listen. They shared inside jokes that made no sense to anyone else.
They never called it love.
They called it nothing serious.
Which was why, when Liyana caught a fever one night and collapsed halfway through cooking dinner, she was genuinely surprised to wake up to the smell of burning rice and Arman swearing in the kitchen.
"This pan hates me," he announced when she opened her eyes. "I think it's personal."
"Why are you here?" she croaked.
He shrugged, stirring something unidentifiable. "You didn't answer your phone. And if you die, I'll feel weird about the noodles we never finished arguing over."
She smiled weakly. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
"Don't spread that rumor," he said. "I have a reputation."
Later, when she fell asleep again, Arman sat by her bed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, not really seeing anything. He watched her chest rise and fall, steady but fragile, and felt an unfamiliar tightness settle behind his ribs.
This is dangerous, he thought.
He had felt this before—this slow, creeping importance of another person. He had sworn he wouldn't let it happen again. He believed distance was safer. That detachment was maturity.
Yet here he was, terrified by the idea of leaving.
When Liyana woke again, she found him asleep in the chair, his head tilted awkwardly, mouth slightly open. She studied him longer than necessary.
"You're an idiot," she whispered.
But she didn't wake him.
That night, both of them lay awake at different times, thinking the same forbidden thought:
This feels like something.
And both of them, separately, decided not to say it.
Because comedy, after all, only works if the tragedy comes later.