Almost is Never Enough

The first time I really noticed Lena was on one of those quiet afternoons in the studio. Where time slowed down and the light from the windows painted everything in soft gold. I was laughing with some friends, when my eyes drifted across the room and landed on her. She was tucked away at her usual spot, sketchbook open, completely lost in whatever world she was creating. Lena was the kind of person who slipped through the cracks in conversations. Quiet and thoughtful. But there was something about her stillness that caught my attention. The way her hand moved lightly over the paper, the slight furrow in her brow as she concentrated. It was calming to watch. I couldn’t help but be drawn to it.

I’d noticed her before, of course – how could I not? She was in my art class, and we’d exchanged polite nods and shared supplies here and there. But this. This felt different. This was different. Something about the way the light hit her just made me pause. I remember catching her eye. She looked up, almost like she’d felt me staring, and for a moment, her gaze met mine. I smiled – instinctively like I always do – but she blinked, her eyes widening a fraction, then quickly looked away. It was cute. The way her face flushed slightly before she ducked back down into her work. Something about it stayed with me.

It wasn’t long after that we started talking more. It began with casual questions about our projects, small exchanges during class, but it felt like every time I spoke to her, I was peeling back another layer of her quietness. Lena didn’t say much – she didn’t have to. But when she did, her words felt deliberate, thoughtful. One afternoon, we were working on this mural for campus, and I remember holding up a jar of paint, asking her if the shade worked for what we were going for. It was a simple question, something I could’ve asked anyone, but I wanted her opinion.

“Uh, yeah, it’s perfect,” she said, her voice soft, but there was something in her tone, in the way she hesitated. Her eyes avoided mine, her hand trembled slightly as she took the paint from me. As the weeks passed, I couldn’t help but be aware of her. She didn’t demand attention. She didn’t fill the space with noise. But her presence was always there, quiet, steady, like an anchor I didn’t even know I needed. We started spending more time together outside of class. Just little things – grabbing coffee, sitting outside the studio after a long day of painting. I found myself seeking her out, craving the moments when it was just the two of us. There was something about her silence that was comforting like I didn’t have to fill every second with words.

One night, after working late, we sat on the grass outside the art building, watching the sun dip below the horizon. The sky was a soft wash of pink and purple, the air cool and crisp. I remember pulling off my jacket and draping it over her shoulders as she shivered. She didn’t say much, just looked at me with those wide, thoughtful eyes like she was searching for something. I don’t know what made me ask it, but the words slipped out before I could stop them.

“You’re always so quiet,” I said, watching her. “What’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours?”

For a second, I thought she might actually tell me. There was something in the ways she looked at me, something raw, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. But she just smiled. A small, sad kind of smile, and looked away.

“Just thinking,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “About how beautiful the sunset is.”

I let it go, but that moment stayed with me. It felt like there was more she wanted to say, something she was holding back. I didn’t push her though. I liked the ease of our friendship, the way we didn’t have to talk all the time to understand each other. Or at least, I thought I understood her.

Then came that afternoon at that café. The one afternoon that changed everything.

We were sitting in our usual spot by the window, the light spilling across the table in golden streaks. I was stirring my coffee absentmindedly, my mind elsewhere. It had been on my mind for a while – Kate. I’d be spending more time with her, and I could feel something between us. Something possibly real.

“I think I’m in love,” I blurt, not really thinking about how the words would land. I needed to say it out loud, to someone I trusted.

Lena froze. I noticed it, the way her fingers tensed slightly around her mug. She’d always been quiet, hard to read. I thought maybe she was just surprised.

“With who?” she asked, her voice so low I almost didn’t hear it.

“Kate,” I replied, feeling a smile tug at my lips. I don’t know why, ut talking about Kate made me feel lighter. “You know her, right? From class? I don’t know, Lena… I’ve just been spending a lot time with her, and it feels like something’s there.”

I kept talking, rambling really, about how great Kate was, how much I liked her. But when I glanced back at Lena, something in her face made me pause. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes and there was a strange tension in her expression, I couldn’t quite place it. But I brushed it off. I mean, Lena was always hard to read. Maybe. Maybe she was just thinking. I reached out to squeeze her hand. She squeezed back, but the way she said, “I’ll always be here” felt different. Heavy. Like there was something unsaid in those words, something I couldn’t grasp.

I started to put the pieces together. Her lingering glances, the hesitation in her voice when we talked. The way her eyes softened whenever I looked at her – it all came rushing back to me in flashes.

By the time I realised – it was too late.