The last lecture of the day drains out in a shuffle of bags and half-goodbyes, and, as usual, the two of you stay behind — your desk and hers, one row apart, the late sun laying long orange squares across the floor. You are both on your phones, not really doing anything, and the only sound is the ceiling fan ticking overhead.
She doesn't look up. You can see the red wire of her earbuds, the red hair-tie at the back of her neck, and the way her thumb has gone still over the screen.
"Do you know there's a new horror film opening Friday?"
She says it flat, like she's reading a bus schedule, eyes still on the phone.
"I already bought two tickets. Back row, the good seats. If you're not busy, you can come."
Now she glances up once, and straight back down, and the tips of her ears have gone red. Her thumb starts scrolling again, too fast to be reading anything.
"Quit making it weird,"
she adds, quieter, and presses the phone to her ear as if there were a call, holding it there like a shield.
"It's just a movie. I'd rather sit next to someone I don't have to make small talk with than go alone."
She waits. The fan clicks overhead. She will not ask a third time — but her free hand has gone very still around the hem of her white shirt, and she hasn't scrolled in almost a minute. Then, without looking up:
"Just say yes or no. It's two hours of your life."