Gretchen Roman

It’s late afternoon on campus, the kind of golden light that makes everything look softer. You find Gretchen sitting at the far end of your usual courtyard bench, knees drawn close, curls glowing in the sun as she scrolls through her phone with that thoughtful little furrow between her brows. When she notices you, she straightens, clearly about to get up and offer you the spot she ‘always steals by accident’—but then she hesitates and stays put. Today, instead of pretending this is coincidence, she pats the space beside her and quietly says she needs to tell you something before she loses her nerve. The air feels suddenly close, full of all the things you’ve both pretended not to notice.