You love him more than anyone you've ever met. He is the sun and the moon and the ocean—he makes your world turn.

(You would never tell him any of this.)

Instead, you write everything (everything) down in a small leather bound notebook, hidden from the eyes of friends and strangers alike. You don't want anybody to know what you really think.

(Especially not him.)

...

It's Sunday afternoon when he knocks on your door.

"Nick," he calls in a sing-song voice.

"What?"

He turns the doorknob and walks into your room. "I'm bored," he says simply as he flops back-down onto your bed. You sigh, close your notebook, and cap your pen, then turn to face him from where you're sitting at your desk.

"Go for a walk," you suggest.

"Come with me?" He pouts.

"Jeff," you whine, "I was busy."

"Doing what?"

"Writing."

"About what?"

You. "Sunrise." Close enough.

"Why?" He tips his head to the side. (It's adorable.)

"Because it's peaceful and energizing and one of the most beautiful things in the world." The lie comes easily, because those things do apply to what you were actually writing about.

"How can it be peaceful and energizing?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm writing about it."

"You're weird," he says fondly. "Maybe coming for a walk will help you think."

"Fine," You concede. You try to make a big show of being frustrated but end up ruining it by smiling when he promises to buy you ice cream.

...

It's a few blocks before you realize that this is not the way to the ice cream shop.

"Jeff, we're going the wrong way."

"Oh," he says. Then, "You mean you're going the wrong way."

"Um, no, I was following you," you say in a much sassier tone than you intended.

He starts laughing. "It's not funny," you mumble.

"I thought this only happened on TV," he manages through his giggles. You smirk in reply and touch his arm to get him to stop walking.

"What's up, Nicky?" He asks.

"You're still going the wrong way."

He looks confused for a moment before saying, "Right."

...

Once you arrive at your destination, you order two scoops of mint chocolate chip ice cream in a bowl. Jeff orders three scoops of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in a waffle cone. You almost take out your wallet before remembering that this is supposed to be a bribe, so instead you head for the table in the corner.

When Jeff joins you, he asks if you've had any inspiration yet. You watch him eat his ice cream for a moment before saying that yes, you have.

(It's not erotic to watch someone eat ice cream, contrary to what a lot of people seem to think. It's fascinating, yes, but not erotic. It makes you wonder what he was like as a child, if he was as carefree as he is now. It makes you wonder if he really is as carefree as you seem to think. It makes you realize that you're getting philosophical because of ice cream.)

"What do you think about when you see someone eating ice cream?" You ask. You realize that you were probably rather abrupt because you've been silent for a few minutes, but Jeff just stops to think before answering, "I think that they're happy."

"Why?"

"Are you happy?" He asks.

"Now, you mean?"

"Yes," he says as he resumes eating.

"Then yes."

"Are you eating ice cream?"

"Jeff—"

"You just proved my point," he grins.

"It's not the ice cream that's making me happy, though."

"Doesn't matter. People are always happy when they're eating ice cream."

"Are you happy?" You ask.

"Am I eating ice cream?" That seems to be a sufficient answer in his mind, because he turns to look out the window. He's only silent for a few seconds before he looks at you again and says, "You said you're happy now."

"What?"

"I asked if you're happy, you asked if I meant now, and you only said yes after I said yes. Are you not happy?"

"In general?" You ask.

"Yes," he says.

You make sure you're looking right into his eyes as you say, "I'm happy when I'm with you."

The gravity of the moment is apparently lost on him, because he says "Aw, that's sweet, Nicky," around a mouthful of ice cream and then starts talking about hot air balloons.

(You don't blame him for not understanding. You wish you could.)

...

That night, while your roommate is sleeping but you can't, you write. You write about green eyes and ice cream and life. You write until your hand starts to hurt and your mind is clearer.

(You barely sleep, but you feel lighter, so it doesn't matter.)

...

You're tired the next day, which you suppose is understandable considering how your night went. You carry your notebook with you all day, in case inspiration strikes again.

It does so during lunch, when Jeff smiles at you over his pasta. You whip out your notebook then and there and write four pages of god knows what. It's jumbled and smudgy and incomplete (always incomplete) but it's there.

When the bell rings, you forget your notebook.

...

You don't realize you don't have your notebook until Jeff brings it to your room that evening.

"You left this on the table after lunch," he says. You try not to visibly panic, even though you're worried that someone might have read something, anything. You know you haven't done a very good job when Jeff says, "Nobody read it, don't worry." You relax as he hands you the notebook, which looks and feels just the same as it always has.

"What's in there, anyway?" Jeff asks as he plops down on your bed.

"Everything," you answer as you place it safely back on your desk.

"What does that even mean?" He asks as he crinkles his nose. You open your mouth to answer, but he cuts you off. "Rhetorical question," he explains. You nod and join him on the bed, making sure that your knees are touching. (It's calming and thrilling all at once—a light breeze and a thunderstorm.)

"Will you let me read something of yours one day?" When you don't answer right away, he prompts, "Not a rhetorical question."

"The night before you get married," you say without thinking. "It can be an early wedding gift."

"What if I don't want to get married?" He asks.

"Then you can have it on the happiest day of your life."

"Is that a promise?"

"Yes."

(That night you don't sleep, nor do you write. Instead, you fret over the twisted promise you made.)

...

You decide that if he asks you why you want to give it to him on either his wedding day or the happiest day of his life, you'll tell him. Weeks pass and he never does.

(He never will.)

...

"I think the happiest day of my life has already happened," he says one day as you sit in the park.

"Really?" You smirk.

"Yeah."

"When was it?"

"Now," he says simply.

Your heart flutters. "And why is that?"

"It's the weekend, I don't have homework, and I'm sitting with my best friend in the park on a beautiful day."

(The words "best friend" make your chest ache; "best friend" is an honourable title, but it's not the highest ranking. You long for a promotion.)

"Mm," you say as you turn back to your notebook.

(You write seven pages of torture—dangling off the edge of a cliff, never quite certain if the water below is warm enough to ease your heart or cold enough to stop it.)

...

Today is the same as any other day: you walk to your first class without a scarf, wish you had brought one, and spend the rest of the day feeling slightly cold. You eat lunch with Jeff and a few other students (some Warblers, some not), and at the end of the day you collapse on your bed to rest for a few minutes before starting your homework.

Normal days are only ever normal until you realize how normal they are, at which point everything starts going wrong. (You suppose that there are some normal days where everything starts going right, but you've not yet experienced one of those yourself.)

There's a small knock at your door and you sigh before getting off of your bed so you can shoo away whoever is there. When you open it, you're face-to-face with Jeff.

"Hey," he grins.

"Hi," you respond, forgetting your original intention of sending your visitor away. "What brings you to Brockington Hall?"

"I have great news," he says excitedly.

"Oh?"

"I have a date tonight!" He jumps up and down slightly. (Your heart is beneath his feet.)

You smile as brightly as you can and hope it looks more natural than it feels. "That's fantastic," you say.

He pauses and frowns. "You don't look happy."

"I'm thrilled," you insist, though your facial expression feels like it's bordering on painful distress.

"What's wrong, Nick?" Jeff's in problem solving mode now. He goes to sit on your bed and gestures for you to join him.

"Nothing," you reply as you try valiantly to keep your smile in place. Your cheeks hurt and your eyes burn but you're not crying, so you consider it a win.

He studies you for a moment, then appears to have a moment of clarity. "Oh my god, you're jealous."

"No, I'm not," you say rapidly, finally sitting on the bed while trying to ignore your heart palpitations.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not," you repeat, louder than last time.

"You're jealous I have a date!" He prods.

"What?" You're genuinely curious now. He could only mean one of two things, and you really hope it's the wrong one.

"You're upset that I have a date tonight and you haven't had one in ... well, ever."

It's definitely the wrong one. "That's not it at all," you reply.

He regards you carefully once again, then agrees, "No, it isn't." (He knows you too well but not well enough.)

"I have homework. You should go. I should work. Have fun on your date," you say as you push him out the door.

"But—" he starts.

"But nothing. I have to finish sixty math problems. Bye." When you close the door behind him, you go right back to your bed and lie down, staring at the wall.

(You comfort yourself with the fact that he didn't ask for your notebook, meaning that today isn't the happiest day of his life. This thought helps you get through all of your math and two paragraphs of an essay due next week.)

...

Your phone rings nine minutes before curfew.

"Hello?"

"Hi," Jeff says. You can hear his smile.

"How was your date?"

"Fantastic."

"Oh," you say.

"How was your night?"

Awful. "Uneventful." I couldn't stop thinking about you. "I'm glad you had fun, though."

"Yeah," he sighs.

The question comes out before you can stop it, "Are you going to go out with him again?"

Jeff is silent for a rather significant amount of time before he finally answers, "No."

"I thought you had fun," you say as you try your very best not to sound as thrilled as you feel.

"I did," he replies, "it's just that ... he was really nice, a perfect gentleman, funny, great hair, but I don't think I want him to be my boyfriend, you know?"

You grin widely as you say, "No, but that's probably because I 'haven't had a date in ... well, ever.'"

"Yeah, I probably sounded like one of those high school movie cheerleaders when I said that. Sorry."

"You did, but apology accepted. If you ever do that again, though, I'll make you buy me ice cream for a month."

"As long as I'm allowed to have some, too," he replies.

"Of course," you grin.

...

A month later, a few days after the first snowfall, he shows up at your dorm and asks you to buy him hot chocolate from the coffee shop down the street.

"Why can't you just drink coffee like a normal person?" You tease.

"You know why."

"Maybe I forgot."

"Fine. It tastes like feet. Can we go now?"

"How do you know what feet taste like?" You tease. When Jeff plunks down on the floor and starts removing his left shoe, you wave your hands wildly and say "No, forget I asked, I believe you." Jeff smirks and puts his shoe back on.

"I'll be back in a minute; I have to get my coat," he says as he stands up.

"Wait," you say as he reaches the door. You wait until he's facing you again before you continue, "Were you really going to lick your foot?"

Jeff just smiles mysteriously as he leaves, though the feeling of mystery fades when he hits his elbow on the door frame.

...

You walk side-by-side with him on the way to the coffee shop, and you start shivering after two blocks.

"Nick," Jeff scolds, "Why didn't you wear a hat?"

"I forgot," you say, feigning indifference—a noble task when your teeth are chattering.

"And mittens? A scarf?"

"Maybe I'm senile," you defend.

"You're eighteen," Jeff points out.

You pause to think for a moment. "Premature dementia? That's a thing, right?"

Jeff hmms and removes his own scarf, then stops you with a hand on your wrist and wraps the scarf around your neck. He spends a few moments straightening it (though you can't imagine that he's really accomplishing anything because he's watching your eyes the whole time), then starts walking before stopping again and turning to stare at you when you don't immediately follow.

Your fingers are so cold that they burn and you can't feel your nose or the tips of your ears but your neck is warm and your heart is fluttering so it feels like the perfect time to say, "I love you." Jeff continues to stare at you and you begin to feel nervous (and think that maybe he didn't hear you), but you don't even try to take it back because you have never been more sure of anything in your life. Suddenly, Jeff is grinning and walking towards you and all you can hope is that he understands what you meant (not brother love or friend love or anything but in love) because you really don't want to clarify. Then, he wraps his arms around your neck and you hold your breath because you still don't know what's going to happen and the suspense is killing you but you want it to last forever.

"I love you, too, Nicky," he says fondly before leaning down quickly and pressing a kiss to your lips. You suck in a noisy breath of surprise through your nose before resting your hands on the middle of his back and reciprocating as best you can. Kissing, it turns out, does not feel explosive nor does it cause your brain to short-circuit like it seems to for every character in every book you've ever read—it's perfect because it feels like a promise of so much more. It's a starting point, the first page of a book and the opening chord of a song. You don't see fireworks or hear music, you feel love. It's simple and beautiful and when Jeff pulls back and looks at you the same way he always has, you wonder if you were just oblivious or if he's really bad at showing his feelings.

"Which one of us was stupid?" You ask and you decide that okay, maybe your brain did short-circuit a little.

"What do you mean?" Jeff asks, clearly trying not to laugh.

"Was I oblivious to your feelings, or were you bad at showing them?"

He seems to think it over for a moment before answering, "Both, I think. I didn't know you loved me, either."

"Good to know," you say. Jeff smiles and kisses you again, but you pull back almost immediately. "I really want to kiss you more but I'm also really cold. If we could get our hot chocolate before I get frostbite, I promise to kiss you more later."

Jeff shakes his head and laughs slightly but takes your hand and starts walking. "You really need to remember to wear your winter clothes in the wintertime."

"I was distracted," you say. "There was this guy in my room who tried to lick his own foot."

"And you were distracted because he was gorgeous," Jeff supplies.

"I don't really remember what he looked like," you say as you tap your chin with your index finger in feigned contemplation, "I was pretty caught up in the whole foot thing."

Jeff just grins.

...

When you and Jeff finally return to the school and settle on your bed, he bumps your shoulder and says, "Hey, remember what you said about your notebook?"

You nod.

"Okay, well, I don't want to see it because even though this is the happiest day of my life so far, I'm still kind of stuck on the whole wedding day part of the deal, so I'll just wait until then."

"You said you might not want get married."

"Things change," he says.

...

On August 17th, 2022, at 9:27 pm—exactly 12 hours and 33 minutes before the start of your wedding ceremony—Jeff asks for the notebook.

"Which notebook?" You ask innocently.

"You know which one," Jeff replies impatiently.

"I've gone through a lot of notebooks since high school," you counter.

"Well, I want to read the one you promised I could read."

"Well, I didn't promise that you could read the whole thing. You asked if you could read something I'd written one day and I said 'on the night of your wedding' and, really, you've already read a lot of my stuff, so—"

"Nick," Jeff interrupts, the word a drawn-out whine.

"Fine, fine," you say as you roll your eyes. You stand and head for the stairs, go up to your room, and get the white file box from the shelf in your closet. You take your time sorting through all the notebooks until you find the one you're looking for before putting everything back in order and replacing the box.

When you finally get back downstairs, Jeff is bouncing in his seat.

"Took you long enough," he says as he grabs the notebook from your hands.

"I don't see why you want that one specifically, anyway," you huff.

"I want to see what you wrote about before you loved me."

"Then I should probably get you one of my notebooks from before I met you," you reply.

Jeff looks up at you with a goofy grin. "Love at first sight? Really? You're a writer, you should hate clichés like that."

"I do. You have no idea how mad I was when it happened."

"Well, if it helps, it happened to me, too."

"Ugh, no. That doesn't help at all. Now I'm stuck with the knowledge that it's happened at least twice."

"Sorry," Jeff says, though he doesn't sound sorry at all. He opens the notebook, scanning the first few pages and wrinkling his nose in amusement. "You wrote about me a lot. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't know, maybe because I was convinced that you'd think I was a freak?"

"Seriously? Have we met? I'm the last person who can judge someone else for being a freak."

"Mm, I do seem to recall you almost licking your foot once."

Jeff shakes his hand and pointed finger toward you fervently a few times, like he does when you're on the right track during any game where you have to guess things. "I remember that!"

"I don't doubt it. Anyway, I was a dramatic guy."

Jeff returns his attention to the notebook and suddenly he's not happy anymore. "I can see that. What happened here?" His eyebrows are furrowed and he's frowning deeply.

"Let me see." When you look at the page, it's filled with barely legible writing interspersed with smudges that may or may not have been tears once. You're pretty sure you've never felt so embarrassed in your life.

"You went on a date," you say sheepishly.

"I—what?"

"I don't know who it was with or anything, but I know you went on a date and you were so excited and it killed me because I wasn't the one making you happy."

Jeff wrinkles his nose and smiles a little. "Wow, you were an emotional little ball of teenage angst, weren't you?"

"Shut up, I thought I'd lost you forever."

"I'd never let that happen," Jeff says seriously, and you can't help but smile.

"I didn't know that at the time."

Jeff puts a hand on the back of your neck and kisses your forehead first, making your eyes flutter closed as you sigh. He goes for your cheeks next, then your nose, and then your chin before finally kissing your mouth, softly pulling your lower lip between his teeth. He pulls back after a while, just a little, and rests his forehead on yours. When you open your eyes, you're met with the sight of two wide green ones peering back at you. "And now?" he asks quietly.

"I do," you reply.

(For the rest of your life, you do.)