Alessia was curious whether he remembered or not.

It was not, she told herself, an accusation. Merely a question, light as the steam curling off her morning tea as she sat at the narrow desk under her window, looking down at the sorority house garden. The autumn wind blew away the red and orange leaves, beautiful to look at, but the sight did nothing in particular for her mood.

Nineteen years old.

It sounded like a number belonging to someone far more composed than the girl whose heart had decided to start tapping against her ribs at the thought of seeing her boyfriend. Boyfriend. Even after nearly a fortnight it still felt like a borrowed word; she kept turning it over in her head, checking whether it truly fit.

The clock on the wall hummed. Her timetable for the day was clipped beneath it, neat columns of lectures and seminars and, at the bottom, the same pencilled note that had been there all week: circle, 17:00–18:30 (attendance?) — call Senior afterwards?

She had added the last part late at night, after one of their telephone conversations had fizzled into a drowsy goodnight.

He always sounded slightly surprised on the phone, as if each ring might have been an accident and finding her on the other end was a small relief. They spoke about lectures, about circle activities, about some problem sets he had half-finished and the star charts he still needed to annotate. They had not yet quite worked out how to sound like a couple when there was nothing in particular to report.

They had, however, talked about birthdays.

It had been two evenings ago; she had been sitting demurely on her narrow bed with the receiver between her shoulder and cheek, brushing her hair gently so she could listen to him, even if it was him shuffling papers or writing things.

“So,” she had said, with all the casualness of someone who had spent three minutes rehearsing the tone, “when is your birthday, Senior?”

He had made a soft startled noise, half laugh. “Mine? Why?”

“Curiosity,” Alessia had replied, aiming for breezy and likely achieving something closer to prim. “And logistics. I should know when to send a card, should I not?”

“Ah.” More paper sounds, as if he was stacking them just to give his hands something to do. “A few weeks ago, actually. October 8. It’s… nothing special.”

“I decide that,” she had muttered, quiet enough that she thought the words had dissolved into the line.

But then he had gone quiet in the way he sometimes did when something nudged old habits, and she had heard the faint exhale that meant he was remembering something he didn’t particularly enjoy remembering.

“At home,” he had said, a moment later, “it turns into a… complicated event. Guests and expectations.” A rustle, a shrug she could hear but not see. “It would be nice, I think, if next time it was quieter. If I could… celebrate it with you, instead.”

She had nearly dropped the receiver. “With me?”

“If you’d like,” he’d added quickly, the words braced for refusal. “You don’t have to. I just thought—”

“I would like that,” she had cut in, before he could retreat behind another apology. Her voice had come out small but firm. “Very much, actually.”

There had been a pause, then that little laugh he did when relief caught him unawares. “Then we’ll do that.”