The wind moved gently through the late December trees, brushing against the stone walls of the university like a lover's whisper. The afternoon light bled gold over the walkways, softening every edge, as if the world wanted to slow down just for them.
Sebastiano Valezzi, coat buttoned up and satchel slung over his shoulder, moved quickly through the east wing corridor of the university—where the literature department spilled into the music hall. His eyes were fixed straight ahead. Focused. Unreadable.
But behind him…
"Sebastiano!"
He closed his eyes briefly.
She was coming.
Aria Bellante appeared in the corridor like spring chasing winter. Her hair bounced with every step, her breath visible in the cold air, cheeks flushed with excitement rather than weather.
"You're walking faster today," she said, almost breathlessly, catching up beside him.
"I have a class," he muttered, not breaking stride.
"Liar. There are no classes past two today. I checked."
He gave her a sidelong glance. "You checked?"
"Of course," she said, looping her arms behind her back. "I like knowing when my almost-friend is trying to avoid me."
"I'm not avoiding you," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "You're practically running. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were shy."
"I'm not."
"Then what are you?" she asked with a smirk.
He paused for just a second. "Tired."
"From what? Sitting silently in a piano room you never play in?"
He didn't answer. His jaw tightened slightly, but she saw the corner of his mouth twitch—just enough to know that maybe, just maybe, she was getting to him.
"Come on," she said, stepping in front of him and walking backward. "You can at least tell me your favorite color."
He stopped.
She stopped.
"I don't have one."
Aria laughed. "You're impossible."
"And you're persistent."
"I'm a dancer. We're trained to be graceful and stubborn."
There was something in the way she said it. The pride. The softness. The way she stood before him, with the sun backlighting her like a painting—her red scarf fluttering in the breeze, her fingers lightly tugging at the ends of her coat sleeves.
She was warmth wrapped in mischief.
"You're not going to leave me alone, are you?" he asked.
"Nope."
"You really want to be friends with someone like me?"
Aria tilted her head. "No."
He blinked.
"I want to be friends with someone like you," she said, her voice gentler now. "Not the walls. Not the silence. Just… you."
He didn't say anything. His eyes shifted toward the courtyard beyond the tall glass windows—the garden where they had first met. Where winter had whispered something new into his life.
She turned and began walking toward it, calling back playfully, "Come on, Valezzi. Say yes before I start singing cheesy love songs in public. I will do it."
He didn't move at first.
But he watched her.
The way she twirled slightly as she walked—how the wind always seemed to know how to dance with her. She was a moment he didn't know how to hold. A page he was afraid to read because he feared how it might end.
Yet he followed.
Quietly.
From a distance.
Still not saying yes.
But not saying no, either.
They ended up in the university café.
Sebastiano sat at a far corner table, close to the windows where no one usually came. His journal sat beside his untouched cup of espresso. He watched the outside world pass—students laughing, snow falling softly against the glass, life moving too easily for some.
And then he saw her again.
Aria.
She didn't ask this time.
She just pulled the chair out across from him, sat down, and rested her elbows on the table like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You're everywhere today," he said.
"I'm on a mission," she replied.
"Is this a game to you?"
"No," she smiled. "This is a revolution. One smile at a time."
He gave a half-sigh, half-laugh through his nose. "That's not how revolutions work."
"It is when you're fighting a heart made of stone."
Their eyes met for a second. And he looked away first.
She glanced at his journal. "Are you a writer too?"
"No."
"But you write?"
"I think."
She leaned forward. "Think out loud next time. Maybe I'll write it into a dance."
He didn't reply, but his fingers drummed once on the table, a quiet rhythm only she noticed.
—
Later that day, she found him again. This time in the old university library. A place with ceilings too high and windows too stained to let in real light. It smelled of dust and ink and silence—Sebastiano's kind of place.
But not hers.
He was tucked between shelves of ancient music theory books. Reading something too heavy for a Thursday afternoon.
"I brought reinforcements," she whispered, holding up a small chocolate bar like it was a treasure. "Peace offering?"
He raised an eyebrow.
"I read somewhere that chocolate helps with overthinking," she added.
"Did it say anything about helping with persistent dancers?"
"No, but I'm writing that chapter myself."
He didn't take the chocolate. But when she walked away and left it quietly on the table, he didn't throw it away either.
—
By evening, the sun had dipped into amber hues, and the bell tower cast long shadows across the university's stone courtyard.
Aria waited near the art hall staircase—where the light filtered in through a stained glass window, painting the floor in colors. She leaned on the railing, watching the steps.
And as expected…
He appeared.
"You're stalking me now," Sebastiano said, hands in his coat pockets.
"No," she said with a grin. "I'm proving a point."
"What point?"
"That you don't scare me."
A pause.
Then—
"I'm not trying to scare you."
"I know," she said softly. "That's the saddest part."
Her words landed like a whisper against his ribs. He looked at her, the shadows and light wrapping around them like theatre curtains.
She stepped closer.
"Say it," she murmured. "Just once. 'We're friends.' Say it and I'll stop chasing you like a bad musical number."
He looked at her—at the girl who wore light like skin and laughed like it was her rebellion. And still, something in him could not say it.
So he said nothing.
Just turned and walked.
But this time, she didn't look disappointed.
This time, she smiled behind him and whispered into the wind,
"You'll say it one day, Valezzi.
And when you do, it'll be the most beautiful thing I've ever heard."