Unspoken

CHAPTER 28 : A chapter unfolding

THIRD PERSON POV

Y/n flipped through her literature notes, the rhythmic tapping of her pencil against the book filling the quiet room. She sat with her back pressed against the headboard of her bed, her legs folded neatly beneath her. The faint hum of the air conditioning blended with the muted rustling of pages, creating a serene, almost hypnotic atmosphere.

Across from her, Mikha sat in a chair pulled up to Y/n's desk, a copy of their assigned book open in her lap. Her gaze drifted away from the text more often than she'd like to admit, drawn irresistibly toward Y/n. Despite her best efforts to focus— even though she already had a solid grasp of the material—her mind kept wandering back to the soft glow of the lamp that illuminated Y/n's features.

They'd been studying for over an hour, but concentration was beginning to waver. Y/n appeared engrossed in her notes, her brows furrowed in intense focus, though Mikha could tell from the way her pencil occasionally hesitated that she wasn't completely locked in. The dense, outdated prose of their assigned reading clearly wasn't making it easy for her.

"Honestly," Y/n muttered, breaking the silence with a dramatic sigh, "this would be so much easier if our professor didn't insist on assigning books written in the 1800s. Why can't we discuss something fun, like contemporary poetry?"

Mikha chuckled, flipping a page of her own book. "Maybe it's just not your style. You're missing the beauty of the classics."

Y/n rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. "Oh, please, enlighten me, Lit Master. What's so beautiful about reading endless pages about doomed lovers and repressed emotions?"

Mikha leaned back slightly, tilting her head as she met Y/n's gaze. Her smirk softened into something almost shy. "Maybe it's the way they say so much without saying anything at all."

Y/n blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the weight of Mikha's words and the way they lingered between them. Her cheeks warmed as she quickly turned back to her notes, feigning composure.

"Well," she began, her tone light and playful, "if you're so in love with this book, why don't you read it to me? Maybe then I'll finally understand what all the fuss is about."

Mikha raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a smirk. "Too lazy to read it yourself, huh?"

"Exactly," Y/n replied without missing a beat, her grin widening. "And because you have that dramatic, deep voice. Perfect for tragic literature."

A soft laugh escaped Y/n as she shook her head, picking up the book again. "Alright, fine. Let's see..." She cleared her throat, her voice dipping low and steady as she began to read:

"'There was something in her eyes that spoke of dreams unfulfilled, a longing for something she couldn't name. He wanted to reach for her, to tell her she didn't have to face the world alone, but he hesitated. He feared his own feelings, afraid they might be too much, or perhaps not enough.'"

Mikha paused, her gaze drifting to Y/n, who was fiddling with the edge of her book. "Your turn," Mikha said gently. "What do you think it means?"

Y/n's fingers stilled, her voice quieter than before. "It's about... vulnerability, I guess. About wanting to connect with someone but being scared you'll mess it up."

Mikha studied her, the intensity of her gaze making Y/n's skin flush under the lamplight. "And? Do you think he should've said something to her?"

Y/n hesitated, her voice faltering. "I don't know. Maybe he should've waited until he was sure. Sometimes, silence feels safer than saying the wrong thing."