Lily hadn't stopped smiling since yesterday.
She lay on her dorm bed with her phone resting on her chest, replaying bits of her conversation with Joe over and over again like her favorite comfort movie. Every time his name popped up on her screen, her heart did that funny little skip—the kind that made her cheeks flush before she even read the message.
Joe: "You strike me as the kind of person who organizes her pencils by emotional attachment."
She giggled, fingers flying to type a reply.
Lily: "Guilty. But only the red ones. They've seen things."
They had been texting all day. Little jokes. Random thoughts. Memes. It felt easy, exciting… and right. She had never had this with David. David was intense, controlling, careful with his words like he was always holding back. Joe, on the other hand, was breezy. Like open windows in spring.
When he asked for her number after they left the café, she had given it without hesitation. Something about him made her want to try. To hope.
Her roommate, Jess, peeked over from her side of the room. "You're smiling at your phone again. Is this the same guy from orientation?"
Lily nodded, her face warming. "Yeah… Joe."
"Okay, Miss Main Character Energy," Jess teased. "Don't forget me when you're famous."
Lily laughed and tossed a pillow at her.
That night, Joe texted again.
Joe: "If we were in a rom-com, you'd be the artsy girl who sketches in coffee shops and changes the guy's entire worldview."
Lily: "And you'd be the tall boy who makes dumb jokes but secretly reads poetry?"
Joe: "Guilty. But only the red ones. They've seen things."
She smiled so wide it hurt.
They talked about everything—college fears, weird dreams, old memories. At one point, he even asked about her art, really asked. And when she sent him a quick sketch of a tree she saw on campus, he said, "You've got magic in your fingers, Lily."
It made her heart ache in the best way.
For the next few days, the messages kept flowing—sometimes fast and flirty, sometimes deep and thoughtful. Lily felt seen. Wanted. Understood.
But then… slowly… almost imperceptibly, things began to shift.
At first, she didn't think much of it. A message left on read for a few hours. Then a full evening. But Joe was probably just busy, right? New classes, new surroundings—it made sense. She didn't want to be that girl. The clingy one.
And besides, he was still kind. Still sweet. Still Joe.
Wasn't he?
But as the week wore on, the replies started coming slower.
One evening, after a long walk back from the art studio, Lily texted Joe a picture of the mural she'd been working on and wrote, "Been thinking of adding gold to the edges. Too much?" She waited with her phone in her hand for a while, checking it every few minutes.
Nothing.
She left it on her desk and got ready for bed, telling herself he'd probably reply in the morning.
He didn't.
Not until the next evening.
Joe: "Whoa, that mural's sick. Gold would totally pop. Sorry, got caught up in a study group."
She replied, trying to keep it cool.
Lily: "No worries! Hope the group didn't put you to sleep."
Joe: "Only during the constitutional law part. Which is, like, 90% of it."
That made her laugh. Still, something tugged at her.
It kept happening.
He'd start a conversation—ask how her day was going, what she was working on, even say "tell me everything"—but the second she opened up, the responses slowed to a crawl. A few times, they just… stopped altogether.
Once, she told him about a panic she had during a critique session when a professor questioned her use of color. She wrote it all out, raw and unfiltered, then stared at her screen, feeling both vulnerable and proud for sharing.
His reply came the next night.
Joe: "Aw, professors can be harsh. Wanna hang this weekend?"
That was it. No comment on what she said. No follow-up. Just like that, the moment passed.
She stared at the message for a long time before replying.
Lily: "I'll let you know."
---
The thing was, Joe hadn't changed. He was still that kind guy who smiled like he meant it. Who walked her halfway to class one morning just because they happened to bump into each other. Who complimented her sneakers and laughed at her dumb jokes.
But… he was also the guy who disappeared in the middle of conversations. Who brushed past things when they got too real. Who could say something lovely one day and go ghost the next.
It made her chest feel tight in a way she couldn't explain.
"Maybe he's just not a phone person," Jess suggested one evening while they folded laundry in their dorm. "Some guys are like that."
"Maybe," Lily said, but her voice was small.
Because if Joe wasn't a "phone person," why did he start so many conversations? Why did he say things like "text me anytime" if he didn't mean it?
She scrolled through their chat one night and noticed the pattern—long gaps, unfinished thoughts, her messages often hanging in the air without closure.
Still, she tried to push the doubt away.
She told herself not to expect too much. She reminded herself how new everything was—for both of them. And most of all, she told herself to be grateful. Because wasn't this what she wanted? A guy who was sweet and gentle? A guy who didn't make her feel small?
But then she remembered something—something Joe had said during that first walk together.
"I've already tripped twice and walked into the wrong building."
He had laughed at himself. Owned the mess-up. Been present.
This version of him—the one who left her hanging—felt distant. Passive. Like he could take her or leave her.
And slowly, Lily began to realize something she wasn't ready to admit out loud.
Even though Joe checked all the boxes… even though he was kind and tall and handsome and safe…
She didn't feel right with him.
There was no fire in her chest when he replied late. No pull to call him when something good happened. When she smiled at his name now, it was smaller. Quieter.
Not because she stopped liking him.
But because she stopped feeling seen.
---
On Friday, he texted her again around 10:40 PM.
Joe: "Thinking of grabbing coffee tomorrow. You around?"
She stared at the message for a few minutes, her heart oddly still.
Then she locked her phone, turned off her lamp, and whispered into the dark—
"I don't know."