Row Three

He saves me a seat in lecture every Tuesday. I've never sat in it.

His name was Finn. We dated for most of second year. Then he ended things in the stairwell of the library, said he "needed to figure stuff out," and walked away holding two coffees. One was mine. I never found out why he bought it.

We share a module. Psychology, Tuesdays at ten, a hall with four hundred seats and one awkward ex. I started sitting at the back, near the door. A strategic exit. Row twenty, aisle seat, hood up.

From there, I can see everything. Including him.

Every Tuesday, he's early. Row three, left side, our old spot. He drops his bag on the seat next to him. Not under the desk. On the seat. Like he's guarding it. People ask, "Is this taken?" He says, "Yeah. Sorry."

For eleven weeks, I've watched him do this. A whole lecture hall squeezing past while one empty chair stays empty. He doesn't check his phone. He keeps glancing at the door. Every time someone walks in, his shoulders lift, then fall.

Today, I got there late. Walked down the aisle, heart pounding, heading to row twenty. And as I passed row three, he looked up.

His bag was on the seat. His eyes found mine. He didn't move it. He just stared at me, like a question he was too scared to ask.

I kept walking.

But I've been sitting here for forty minutes, not hearing a word.

Because I finally understand.

He's not saving the seat.

He's waiting for me to decide it's mine.