Dean sat by the window in his apartment, the soft glow of the city lights illuminating his thoughtful face. The sound of distant car horns and murmurs of late-night activity filled the air, but his mind was elsewhere.
Even though their date hadn't gone as planned, he couldn't stop thinking about her. There was something so natural about being around her, like they had known each other forever. The connection felt deeper than just a few days of conversations on the train.
As he leaned back in his chair, an old memory surfaced—one he hadn't thought about in years.
The scene was vivid in his mind: the college campus bathed in the golden hue of late afternoon sunlight, students scattered across the grounds, laughing and chatting. Dean remembered sitting on a bench under a tree, his sketchbook resting on his lap.
Art had been his escape back then, a way to cope with the silence and darkness that had followed his parents' deaths. But that day, he wasn't drawing. He was watching her.
Sara.
She was sitting with her friends on the lawn, laughing at something someone had said. Her laughter had carried across the space, light and infectious. Dean had felt an inexplicable warmth in his chest, a momentary reprieve from the weight he usually carried.
He remembered pulling out his pencil, sketching her without even realizing it. Her smile, the way her hair caught the sunlight, the sparkle in her eyes—it had all flowed onto the page effortlessly.
But when he finished, he'd felt a pang of guilt. She didn't even know him, and yet here he was, capturing her essence like some distant admirer. He had closed the sketchbook and pushed the feelings aside, telling himself it was just a fleeting moment of admiration.
As the memory faded, Dean opened his eyes, his chest tightening.
"Was it really just admiration?" he murmured to himself.
He stood and walked to the bookshelf, pulling out an old, dusty sketchbook. Flipping through the pages, he found it—the sketch of Sara from that day.
Her face stared back at him, frozen in time, a perfect snapshot of who she had been then.
Dean sat down, staring at the drawing. He had carried this image in his mind for years, but he'd never connected the dots. Back in college, he had been so consumed by his grief and isolation that he hadn't allowed himself to explore what he truly felt.
"I… I liked her," he whispered, the realization hitting him like a wave. "Maybe I always have."
Dean's mind drifted to other moments.
There was the time they had worked on a group project together. He had been quiet and reserved, keeping to himself, but Sara's energy had drawn everyone in. She had a way of making people feel comfortable, seen.
Then there was the graduation ceremony. He remembered watching her from afar as she celebrated with her friends, feeling a strange mix of pride and longing. He hadn't approached her that day, convinced that she wouldn't even remember his name.
But now, after reconnecting with her, those old feelings were beginning to resurface.
Dean closed the sketchbook and leaned back against the couch, his eyes closed.
"How could I have been so blind?" he muttered.
He realized that his pain and fear of attachment had held him back, keeping him from recognizing what had been right in front of him all along. Sara had been a bright spot in his otherwise dark college years, even if he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge it.
But now, things were different. He wasn't the same person he had been in college. He had grown, learned to manage his grief, and opened himself up to the possibility of happiness again.
Dean grabbed his phone, staring at Sara's number. He wanted to call her, to tell her everything, but he hesitated.
"What would I even say?" he wondered aloud. "Hey, by the way, I think I've liked you since college but was too broken to realize it?"
He shook his head, laughing softly at himself. No, he needed to take things slow, to let this connection grow naturally. But he also knew he couldn't let fear hold him back anymore.
Dean made a silent promise to himself: he wouldn't let this chance slip away.
The sun rose, casting a warm light over the city. Dean woke up feeling lighter than he had in years. He grabbed his sketchbook again, flipping to a blank page.
For the first time in a long time, he felt inspired. Pencil in hand, he began to draw, letting his emotions guide him.
Hours later, he looked at the finished sketch: Sara, as she had been on their recent train rides together. Her laughter, her warmth, her spark—it was all there.
He smiled, setting the sketchbook aside. "This time," he said softly, "I won't let her slip away."