Lovesick

by Somebody's Nightmare

Cloud Strife has been in love with Tifa Lockhart since before he knew what love was. Now in college, he hides that love behind bruised knuckles, motorcycle engines, and a camera full of photos no one will ever see. But when jealousy, meddling friends, and an old childhood promise collide, Cloud's carefully guarded feelings threaten to spill. Inspired by FFVII Ever Crisis Academy.

Lovesick.

---

Morning light filters through the half-closed blinds like some kind of sadistic alarm clock, painting stripes across my closed eyelids. I groan and burrow deeper into my sloppily constructed pillow fortress, not ready to face another day of pretending I'm not hopelessly in love with my best friend.

The familiar soft knock-push of the door makes my heart stutter even before I'm fully conscious.

Tifa.

Only she enters our dorm room like she lives here. Only she cares enough to make sure I'm awake and ready to tackle another day I would rather not face.

"Cloud? It's almost nine." Her voice - gentle, feminine,divine- wraps around me like a warm blanket, soft and familiar.

I crack open one eye to see her standing over me, backlit by the morning sun so her silhouette glows around the edges. She's wearing the standard Midgar Academy girls' uniform - pleated skirt and bow neck sailor top - but on her, it's a haute couture fashion statement that hugs her curves n all the right places and shows just the right amount of skin. She's holding a paper-wrapped sandwich in one hand and a travel mug in the other. The smell of coffee and eggs hits me, and my stomach growls in an embarrassing announcement of my hunger.

"You missed breakfast again," she says, the gentle scolding in her voice so achingly familiar it hurts somewhere behind my ribs, blood rushing throughout my body and most of it heading south. I'm definitely awake now. "Here."

I push myself up on my elbows, and I know my hair is sticking up in all directions. I'm usually a wreck in the mornings, my hair has always been unruly but it takes work to make it look like it's done on purpose. Tifa giggles as she appraises me, then perches on the edge of my bed. It dips under her weight, and I slide a little closer to her. Always gravitating toward her, like some fucking lovesick satellite.

"Thanks," I mumble, taking the coffee first. The mug warms my palms, and I hold it close to my face, letting the steam cloud my vision so I don't have to look at how beautiful she is in the morning light.

"Aw, look at the happy little couple." Zack's voice floats down from the top bunk, thick with sleep and amusement. "Cloud's dorm wife, right on schedule."

I glare up at where his arm dangles over the edge of his mattress. "Shut up, man."

Tifa just laughs, the sound making my chest constrict. "Someone has to make sure he doesn't waste away to nothing between classes."

"At least my dorm wife isn't a walking menace," I mutter, taking a bite of the sandwich to hide my flush. "Unlike yours."

"Hey, Aerith is a free spirit." Zack's defensive tone doesn't mask his pride. I can almost feel him grinning from here.

"That's one way to describe someone who almost got expelled for turning the dean's office plants into man-eating monstrosities," I say, my mouth full.

Tifa makes a disapproving noise and hands me a napkin. "Chew, then talk."

This is our routine. Has been since we started at Midgar Academy last semester. Tifa bringing me food, scolding me gently, tidying up after me like she's been doing since we were kids. It's so fucking domestic it hurts, because it's everything I want and nothing I can have.

While I eat, she moves around the cramped dorm room with practiced ease, picking up books I've left scattered on the floor, organizing papers on my cluttered desk. She knows where everything goes. She's been in my space in one way or another since we were five years old, back in Nibelheim where our houses were so close we shared a backyard fence.

The morning light catches in her dark hair as she bends to retrieve my engineering textbook, and for a second, I can't breathe. I just... can't. Because she's so goddamn beautiful and she fits into my world like she was made for it.

Like she belongs here.

I remember with painful clarity the day we sat under the big cherry blossom tree behind Tifa's house with scraped knees and big dreams. I couldn't have been more than fourteen, but already I was scheming on ways to get out of Nibelheim and become someone worthy of her. Back then, I'd been planning to join the military, but Tifa talked so much about college that I knew I would follow her anywhere. It was the summer before high school, and we had been talking about what we both might do once we graduated. Somehow, that conversation had drifted to far beyond college or whatever post-secondary aspirations we might have.

"If we don't find anyone else," she'd said, her pinky linked with mine, "we'll just marry each other, okay?"

I'll admit I was stunned. It was such a silly, unrealistic thing to promise. But nonetheless, after gaping at her like an idiot while she smiled at me happily, I'd nodded solemnly, already knowing I'd never want anyone else. I already knew that my heart was a one-way street with a dead end at Tifa Lockhart.

Now, almost a decade later, that childish promise hangs in the air between us, unspoken and unacknowledged. Not even once did we speak of it after that day. It was a joke, probably, to her.

A sacred vow to me.

I followed her halfway across the world to Midgar Academy. I'd never admit it out loud, but I chose this school because she did. I'd follow her anywhere, like the pathetic lovestruck idiot I am.

"Your lab report is due today, right?" She taps the papers she's organizing. "Did you finish it?"

"Yeah. Last night." After she'd gone back to her dorm, I'd stayed up until three working on it, fueled by coffee and the lingering scent of her shampoo on my pillow where she'd leaned against it.

She smiles, and it's like the sun coming out from behind clouds. "Good. I know Professor Highwind doesn't accept late assignments."

Her kindness feels like a knife sometimes. Is she this way with me because she cares, or because it's habit? Because our mothers were like sisters and she grew up helping around my house after my dad died? Because she feels sorry for the awkward boy who can't seem to get his shit together?

"I can walk you to your poli-sci class," I offer, standing and stretching, suddenly conscious that I'm only wearing sweatpants. Her eyes flick to my bare chest for just a moment before darting away, and my treacherous heart speeds up.

Above, Zack chuckles a little too loudly.

"That would be-" Her phone buzzes, and she glances at it. I catch a glimpse of the name:Emilio. Something dark and ugly coils in my gut. That asshole from Nibelheim who always hung around her, who I got into more fights with than I can count.

"Sorry, I have to run." She grabs her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. "Group project meeting before class. But we're still on for studying at my place tonight, right?"

"Yeah. Of course." I try not to sound desperate.

She pauses at the door, turning back with that soft smile that's just for me. Well, at least I think it is. I can never be too sure anymore. "I'll see you tonight, Cloud."

And just like that, she's gone, leaving behind the scent of vanilla and the warm mug in my hands. I collapse back onto my bed and groan into my pillow, wondering how many more years I can torture myself like this.

"Dude," Zack says from above, "you've got it bad."

I throw my pillow at his bunk. "Shut up."

But he's right. I do have it bad. I have it so fucking bad for Tifa Lockhart that sometimes I can't breathe, much less think.

I havereallygot to get my shit together.

---

My camera feels like the only honest part of me as I move through campus. Through the viewfinder, I can capture moments of truth without having to participate in : a sparrow landing on the stone edge of the : light filtering through autumn leaves on the : Tifa laughing with friends outside the humanities building, her head thrown back, throat exposed in a display of joy so pure it makes my stomach ache.

I lower the camera before she notices me, a habit so ingrained it might as well be muscle memory. I've been taking photos of Tifa since we were kids, cataloging every smile, every frown, every moment she exists in this world that seems brighter just for having her in it.

It's pathetic, honestly. I'm supposed to be focusing on my engineering classes, on becoming someone worth something in this world. Professor Highwind thinks I have potential - real potential - to design engines that could change transportation forever. My mind should be on gear ratios and fuel efficiency, not the way Tifa's hair catches the light or how her smile creates the tiniest dimple in her left cheek.

But here I am, camera always ready, always watching. Always collecting pieces of her to keep for myself.

It started when we were kids. Tifa, who trained under the somewhat infamous Master Zangan, would practice her martial arts in her backyard, swift and graceful even at ten years old. I'd watch from behind my bedroom window, too scared to go outside and talk to her. When my mom gave me a camera for my eleventh birthday, the first thing I did was sneak photos of Tifa practicing her forms, the sunlight making her look like some kind of warrior goddess.

"Cloud?" she'd asked, spotting me one day, half-hidden behind a tree. "Are you taking pictures of me?"

I'd almost died of embarrassment. But instead of being angry, she'd struck a dramatic pose, laughing. "Make sure you get my good side!"

After that, she became my favorite subject. My only real subject, if I'm honest with myself.

I'm pulled from my memories when I spot her across the quad, sitting on a bench with Emilio.

Fucking Emilio.

The asshole followed her from Nibelheim to Midgar Academy like some kind of puppy, always hovering, always trying to make her laugh with jokes that aren't even funny.

Like now. He's leaning in close, saying something that makes her throw her head back and laugh, her hand touching his arm briefly. I feel sick, my fingers tightening around my camera until my knuckles hurt.

Emilio's not just some random guy. He's our history. He grew up across town, the son of the General Store owner, always strutting around like he owned Nibelheim. We've been fighting since we were six, when he pushed Tifa off the swings and I broke his nose with my tiny fist. He hates me. I hate him. And he's always wanted what's mine.

Not that Tifa is mine. She isn't. That's the whole fucking problem.

I force myself to walk past them without looking back, even when I hear her call my name. I pretend not to hear, which is cowardly, but I don't trust myself not to do something stupid like challenge Emilio to another fistfight right there in the quad.

Later, between classes, I'm crossing through the administration building when I spot her again. This time she's with Rufus Shinra, of all people. He's dressed in an immaculate, three-piece, bone-white suit, which is fucking ridiculous for a college campus full of hoodies and ramen-stained sweatpants, but of course he pulls it off like he owns the place - because, in a way, he kind of does. He's a fourth-year, the student body president, and heir to the Shinra Electric Power Company fortune, after all.

He's standing too close to her, looking down with that smug smile that makes me want to rearrange his perfect teeth. One hand is in his pocket, the other gesturing too close to her shoulder. She laughs politely at something he says, but it doesn't reach her eyes. Still, something in my chest tightens, irrational and involuntary.

I hate how good they look together. I hate how easy he makes it seem. And most of all, I hate how she doesn't pull away.

I duck behind a column, watching and feeling my teeth grind against each other. It's a meeting, clearly, as Tifa has a notebook open, gesturing as she speaks. Student government stuff. She's the freshman class representative, ambitious and driven as always.

Rufus is all expensive suits and practiced charm, the kind of guy who's never had to wonder if he belongs somewhere. The kind of guy who's never had to work for anything. His blonde hair falls across his forehead perfectly, not in messy spikes like mine, and his shoes probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

Something cold and hard settles in my chest. Two rivals. Two guys who could give Tifa things I can't. Emilio with his shared hometown connections and easy charm. Rufus with his wealth and position and future secured by his last name.

And me? What do I have? A semester's worth of an engineering degree and a camera full of stolen moments. A childhood promise she probably doesn't even remember. The ability to beat things until they break, including my own hopes.

I back away from the column and head toward my next class, the weight of inadequacy settling over me like a cloak. Maybe I should be focused on figuring out who I am without Tifa Lockhart consuming my every thought.

Maybe I should start by admitting that she deserves better than what I can offer her.

---

My fist connects with the heavy bag hard enough to send pain shooting up my arm, but I don't care. I want it to hurt. Need it to hurt. Every time I close my eyes, I see Rufus Shinra's manicured hand on Tifa's shoulder, see Emilio making her laugh like I never can. Each punch is for them, the golden boy heir and the hometown hero, both of them circling Tifa like they have any fucking right to her. I hit harder, ignoring the sting in my knuckles. Not hard enough. Not strong enough. Story of my goddamn life.

The campus rec center echoes with the sounds of my fury, the rhythmic thud of fists on leather, my ragged breathing, occasional grunts when I put too much force behind a hit. I've been at it for almost an hour, sweat soaking through my tank top, muscles screaming for relief. I ignore all of it, focusing only on the satisfying impact of each strike.

Left jab. Right cross. Hook. Uppercut. Repeat until I can't feel anything but the burn.

"You trying to murder that bag or just maim it?" Zack's voice cuts through my concentration. He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with that annoying mix of amusement and concern he's perfected.

I grunt in response, this time reaching for my bat. I lift and aim, landing a blow that makes the chain holding the bag creak.

"Seriously, man, what's that bag ever done to you?" He pushes off the wall and approaches, holding the bag steady as I continue my assault. "Wait, let me guess. This has Tifa written all over it."

"Shut up," I mutter, striking harder.

"And I'm guessing you saw her with what's-his-name from your hometown?" he persists, because Zack never knows when to stop. "Or maybe our esteemed student body president caught your eye? I saw him cornering her after the department meeting."

The mention of Rufus makes me throw the bat so wildly it misses the bag entirely. I stumble, off-balance and furious.

"Whoa, easy there." Zack grabs my shoulder to steady me. "You keep swinging like that, you're gonna dislocate something."

"What do you care?" I shrug off his hand, returning to my stance.

"I care because you're my best friend and you're being a self-destructive idiot." He steps in front of me, blocking my access to the bag. "This isn't training, Cloud. This is you assaulting your way through your problems instead of actually dealing with them."

Before I can respond, Coach Wallace's booming voice echoes across the gym. "The hell kind of form is that, Strife?"

Barret Wallace, former heavyweight champion and current terror of the Midgar Academy athletic department, stalks over to us, his prosthetic arm gleaming under the fluorescent lights. "You call that a fighting stance? My four-year-old daughter could knock you on your ass the way you're standing."

I wipe sweat from my eyes with the back of my hand. "I'm fine."

"You're sloppy," he corrects, adjusting my feet with a nudge of his boot. "And you're gonna break your wrist throwing hooks like that." He demonstrates the proper form, his massive fist cutting through the air with precision despite its size. "Power comes from rotation, not just muscle. Use your brain, not just your anger."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Because he's right. I am just using my anger. But what else am I supposed to do with it?

If I can just get stronger... maybe she'll notice me again. Like she used to. Back when we were kids and I was her hero for a brief, shining moment.

"Again," Barret orders. "And this time, think before you swing. And give me that bat."

I toss it to him, then set up my stance properly this time, focusing on technique. Left jab. Right cross. Hook with proper rotation. Every movement deliberate instead of desperate.

That's when I feel it, the prickle at the back of my neck that means I'm being watched. I glance toward the glass wall separating the gym from the hallway, and my heart stops.

Tifa stands there, one hand pressed lightly against the glass, watching me. Her gym bag is slung over her shoulder, and she's dressed for her martial arts class, but she's paused on her way to the dojo. Watching me. Just... watching.

There's something in her expression that makes my chest tighten. Part admiration, I see it in the slight parting of her lips, the way her eyes track my movements. But there's concern there too, in the furrow between her brows, the tightness around her mouth.

For a moment, I imagine dropping everything, walking out to her, telling her... what? That I'm losing my mind with jealousy? That I've loved her since before I knew what love was? That seeing her with other guys makes me want to burn the whole campus to the ground?

Instead, I turn back to the bag. Throw another punch. Harder this time. Perfect form.

When I glance back, she's gone.

"Your girl's worried about you," Zack says smugly.

"She's not my girl." The words taste like ash.

"Could've fooled me." He tosses me a pair of training gloves. "Come on, tough guy. Let's see if you can hit something that hits back."

I pull on the gloves, grateful for the distraction. Grateful that someone, at least, is willing to let me burn through this poison inside me. Even if it means I wake up tomorrow bruised and aching.

Maybe pain is simpler than whatever I feel when I look at Tifa and know she'll never see me the way I see her.

---

Tifa's side of the dorm room she shares with Aerith is a study in contradictions, just like her. Neat but lived-in. Feminine but practical. The string lights draped over her bookshelf cast everything in a warm glow that makes it feel like we're in our own private universe, like a recreation of the stars that used to hang above our hometown of Nibelhiem.

We sit cross-legged on her fuzzy rug, textbooks spread out between us like some kind of academic no-man's-land. My knee touches hers when I reach for my coffee, and even through our layers of clothing, that brief contact sends electricity crackling up my spine. Her skirt has ridden up, exposing a thick band of creamy thigh above her thigh-high socks.

I'm pathetic, getting worked up over knee touches and an inch of skin like we're in middle school. But that's what she does to me, reduces me to an awkward, lovesick kid every time.

"So if the vector force is applied at this angle..." I tap my pencil against her physics homework, trying to focus on equations instead of how she smells like vanilla and something uniquely her.

"Right, then the resultant momentum shifts toward..." She leans closer, her dark hair falling forward. I resist the urge to tuck it behind her ear, to let my fingers linger against her cheek.

"Exactly." My voice sounds strangled even to my own ears. "You've got it."

She smiles up at me, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Thanks, Cloud. I don't know why vectors are so hard for me to visualize."

"You're a words person," I say with a shrug. "But you're still getting an A, so don't stress about it."

"Speaking of words..." She pulls my political science essay toward her, her fingers brushing mine in the process. My hand jerks back like I've been burned. If she notices, she doesn't comment. "Your analysis is good, but you need to elaborate more on how Director Teusti's sustainability policies contradict Shinra's economic expansion goals."

I groan, flopping back dramatically against her bed. "Politics is such bullshit. It's all just talking in circles."

"It's not bullshit," she says, her voice taking on that passionate edge I love. "It's how things actually change. Engineering can build better machines, but politics decides who gets to use them and how."

I prop myself up on my elbows, watching her. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright with conviction. She's so beautiful when she talks about the things she believes in. I want to photograph her like this, capture this exact moment of perfect passion.

"Fine," I concede. "I'll add another paragraph about Reeve."

"Good." She grins, victorious, and reaches for the box of pocky I brought. Her favorite, chocolate matcha. I keep a stash in my dorm specifically for these study sessions.

Our fingers touch again as she takes a stick, and this time, I don't pull away. Neither does she. For three heartbeats, we're connected by this small point of contact, and I swear I can feel her pulse through her fingertips.

She breaks the moment by biting into the pocky with a satisfying crunch, her lips wrapping around the stick and leaving a pink imprint of her lip gloss around it. The sudden, baffling impulse to kiss her assails me, but she looks away, leaving me to stew in the electric charge that surges around me.

We work in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the scratch of pencils and Tifa's occasional, soft sighs. This is my favorite part of any day, just existing in the same space as her, no pressure to talk or be anything other than who we are. It feels like home in a way my actual dorm never does.

I glance up to find her squinting at her laptop screen, her lip caught between her teeth in concentration. She looks so focused, so determined. The words "you're beautiful" sit on the tip of my tongue, dangerous and tempting.

She looks up suddenly, catching me staring. Her eyes drop to my hands where I've been unconsciously flexing my sore knuckles. The bandages Zack helped me wrap around them after our sparring session are already fraying at the edges.

Her expression softens with concern, and she opens her mouth like she's about to say something- probably to beg me to stop punishing myself in the ring, maybe. But she doesn't. And I don't explain. We're good at this dance of not saying things that matter.

The moment fractures when her door swings open without warning. Aerith breezes in like she owns the place, all flowing hair and mischievous energy.

"Hello, lovebirds!" she sings, twirling past us to her side of the dorm, which is far messier than Tifa's and looks like the Pink Panther vomitted all over it. "Don't mind me, just need to grab… ah, here it is!" She pulls out a red leather jacket from her closet and tosses it around her shoulders.

I tense up immediately. Aerith terrifies me, though I'd never admit it. She's got this reputation on campus for hexing people who cross her friends. Last semester, a guy who interrupted Tifa one too many times during debate club mysteriously developed an uncontrollable honking noise whenever he tried to speak. No one could prove Aerith was behind it, but everyone knew.

"We're studying, Aerith," I say, not bothering to correct the "lovebirds" comment. "Some of us care about grades."

"Ooh, grumpy Cloud today." She pouts dramatically, slipping on the jacket. "Is he always this much fun, Tifa?"

Tifa gives me a reproachful look. "Be nice, Cloud."

"I'm always nice," I mutter.

Aerith laughs, adjusting her hair over the collar. "Oh, I'm sure you are. Anyway, I'm meeting Zack at the quad. Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" She winks at Tifa, who blushes.

After she flutters out, the comfortable rhythm between us is broken. The room feels charged with something I can't name. I stare at my essay without seeing the words, my mind stuck on Rufus Shinra's perfect fucking face, on Emilio's easy way of making Tifa laugh.

"So," I say, trying to sound casual, "what's the deal with you and Rufus?"

Tifa pauses, her pencil hovering midair over her notebook. The air shifts. For one breathless second, she doesn't answer. Then, with practiced calm, she sets the pencil down and closes her textbook.

"He's the student government president," she says finally. "Since I'm the freshman class rep, I have to work with him on a few campus projects."

She's not defensive. She's not flustered. But she's notwarm, either.

She glances at the clock on her laptop. "It's getting late. We should probably call it a night."

I nod, too quickly. "Yeah. Sure."

The silence is brittle as she starts packing up her notes. I hate how fast she shifts into polite distance. I hate that I caused it.

I don't try to stop her this time. I just gather my things, moving slowly, like that might somehow slow the weight pressing down on my chest.

"Goodnight, Cloud."

"Goodnight, Tifa."

By the time I step out into the hallway, the door is already closed behind me.

The quad is nearly empty as I make my way across to the Fine Arts building. Campus lights flicker overhead as I cut across the grass, my bag heavy on my shoulder and my chest heavier still.

I pull out my phone and type and retype the message three times before hitting send.

[Cloud: sorry about earlier. i'll see you in the morning.

I watch the screen for a while, waiting for the jumping little three dots that never come.

---

The darkroom is my sanctuary. Red safelight bathes everything in a crimson glow that transforms the mundane into something otherworldly. Under this light, I can pretend the ache in my chest is just a trick of the shadows. I work methodically, running film through developer, stop bath, fixer, a routine I've performed hundreds of times. My hands, still sore from that afternoon's sparring, move with precision despite the pain. The photos emerge slowly, like ghosts materializing from nothing. First, a faint outline. Then, details. Finally, her face.

Tifa, laughing by the fountain, unaware she's being immortalized. Another secret to add to my collection.

I clip the wet prints to the drying line strung across the room, careful not to smudge the emulsion. The image of Tifa mid-laugh joins dozens of others, of her sitting under an oak tree on campus, her practicing forms in the dojo, her bent over a textbook in the library, brow furrowed in concentration. My personal gallery of stolen moments.

There's something almost holy about this process. In the chemical-scented darkness, I can admit truths I hide from daylight. That I've been documenting Tifa's existence since we were teenagers. That I probably cross some line between appreciation and obsession. That these photos are the closest I'll ever get to having her.

Some date back to our senior year of high school. Tifa practicing piano in the music room, sunlight streaming through windows to create a halo effect around her silhouette. Tifa in her martial arts uniform after winning the regional championship, sweaty and fierce and radiant. Tifa at graduation, looking toward the future with a hope I couldn't share because my future was wherever she went.

None of them are posed. All of them are intimate in the way only candid shots can be, moments when she wasn't performing for anyone, when she was simply existing in her truth. Her laugh, caught in a moment of pure joy. Her asleep under a tree during spring finals week, exhausted from all-night study sessions. Her focused in the dojo, embodying power and grace in every movement.

I carefully remove my favorite from the chemical bath, Tifa asleep in a pool of sunlight in the campus library three weeks ago. Her head rests on her folded arms, face turned toward the window, eyelashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks. The light creates a natural spotlight, as if the sun itself couldn't resist drawing attention to her beauty. I'd walked into the library to return a book and found her like that, vulnerable and perfect. Before I even realized what I was doing, my camera was in my hands.

I place this print beside another I developed last semester. It was Tifa at thirteen, sitting on the edge of the Nibelheim water tower, looking up at a sky full of stars. Tifa loved to stargaze. It was something we both did, sometimes together, but I would often find her up there alone, face tilted towards the heavens. I'd taken the photo from my bedroom window with the old film camera my mom gave me for my birthday, before I left to meet her up there. It was the first photo I ever took that made me feel something, a real passion for the shutters and clicks behind the lens. It was like I'd captured more than just an image, but a moment that mattered.

The two photos create an accidental diptych, a visual poem about time and constancy. In both, Tifa is bathed in light; starlight then, sunlight now. In both, she's unaware of being observed, existing in a moment of quiet grace. Young Tifa looks up at the stars with wonder. College Tifa sleeps beneath the sun, exhausted but peaceful. Night and day. Past and present. The girl who dreamed and the woman she became.

I consider, not for the first time, submitting something like this to the student gallery. Professor Valentine, the photography instructor, has hinted that I have "a unique perspective." He doesn't know that my perspective is almost entirely filtered through my obsession with one person.

I carefully tuck both prints into my portfolio instead. This isn't for public consumption. It's too raw, too honest. Too revealing of how much I still love the girl who once promised to marry me if we didn't find anyone better.

This is mine. The one part of myself that still belongs fully to the version of her who sat with me under the stars and believed I could be someone worthy of standing beside her. Before we got to university and I realized how much better she deserves thanme.

I finish developing the remaining prints, more landscapes and a few architectural studies of campus buildings that I took for my portfolio's sake. But it's always her face I look for as images emerge from the blank, shiny paper. Always her smile that makes this whole process feel like magic instead of science.

In the darkroom, I can pretend that someday I'll be brave enough to show her how I see her. How I've always seen her. But for now, these images remain my confession, preserved in silver and shadow, never to be spoken aloud.

---

The campus courtyard is packed with students eager for homemade treats, but all I see is Tifa. She stands front and center at the freshman bake sale table, confident and radiant in a blue apron with "Midgar Academy" emblazoned across the front. Her hair is tied back in a high ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face as she hands change to a customer. She's in her element here, organized, cheerful, the instinctive leader she's always been.

And naturally, she's not alone. Where Tifa shines, men orbit like moths to flame. Today, it's Emilio Sanchez and Rufus Shinra, circling my light, threatening to block her out entirely.

I hang back, helping set up extra tables at the periphery, staying in my lane. This is Tifa's show, and I'm just here for support. Not that she seems to need it with Emilio playing the role of devoted assistant.

He's leaning across the table, arranging muffins in a perfect spiral as Tifa directs. His sleeve brushes hers "accidentally" every few seconds, and each time, something in my chest constricts.

"You made these, right?" he asks, holding up one of the matcha cupcakes. "I'd recognize your baking anywhere. Remember when you used to bring cookies to school and save the best ones for me?"

She smiles politely. "I saved them for everyone, Emilio."

But he's already moved on, bringing her a steaming cup. "Matcha tea, just how you like it. Two sugars, no milk."

Her eyebrows raise slightly as she takes it. "Thanks. How did you remember that?"

"Are you kidding? We've known each other forever. I remember everything about you."

The way he emphasizes "forever" while glancing in my direction makes it clear his comment is aimed at me. It's true- his family moved to Nibelheim when we were four, while mine had been there for generations. Not that it matters. Quantity of time doesn't equal quality.

Across the courtyard, Rufus Shinra observes the activity with detached amusement. He's not here to buy cookies. The heir to the Shinra Electric fortune wouldn't bother with a freshman bake sale unless he had an agenda. No, he's here to evaluate the new student leaders, maybe recruit promising ones to his political faction. His eyes linger on Tifa longer than the others, and my hands clench involuntarily.

Unlike Emilio, Rufus is no childhood rival. He's something worse - a symbol of everything I'm not and can never be. Wealthy. Connected. Destined for power. The kind of guy who never has to worry if he belongs somewhere.

I focus on setting up the last table, keeping my head down. Tifa catches my eye briefly and gives me a small smile that eases the knot in my chest. Maybe things are okay between us after last night's awkwardness.

The moment is shattered when Emilio sidles up to me, a smirk playing on his lips. "Hey, Cloud. Surprised to see you here. Tifa mentioned you've been skipping a lot of classes lately."

I ignore him, continuing to unfold chairs.

"She worries about you, you know." He lowers his voice. "Always has. Even back home, she was always making excuses for you. 'Poor Cloud, he tries so hard.'"

My jaw tightens, but I keep working.

Don't engage. Don't give him what he wants.

"It's kind of sad, seeing her waste so much energy on a charity case." He watches Tifa as she laughs with a group of students. "Some guys are only showing up now that she's glowed up, but I've been there all along. Before you followed here like some stray cat. Before you decided to play bad boy to compensate."

The chair I'm holding creaks under my tightening grip.

"Between us," he continues, "Rufus has been asking about her. Guess he has a thing for small-town girls with potential. Can't blame him. She's really coming into her own here." He looks me up and down with deliberate slowness. "Meanwhile, some of us are still trying to figure out where we fit in. If we fit in at all."

Something in me snaps. Every insecurity, every fear that I'm not enough for her, that I never will be, all boils over at once. Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm shoving him, hard. He stumbles backward into the table of cupcakes, sending them flying in a spray of frosting and crumbs.

Gasps ripple through the courtyard. Time seems to slow. Emilio regains his balance, fury darkening his face as he lunges toward me. It's like we're ten years old again, fighting in the Nibelheim schoolyard over who gets to sit next to Tifa at lunch.

Chaos erupts. Students scatter or press closer, eager for drama. From the corner of my eye, I see Rufus watching with undisguised amusement, like we're performing some quaint rural ritual for his entertainment.

Then Tifa is between us, one hand on my chest, the other extended toward Emilio. Her face is flushed with embarrassment and anger.

"Stop it! Both of you!" Her voice cuts through the noise. "This is exactly why I didn't want either of you helping today!"

Emilio straightens his shirt. "He started it. Typical Cloud, always leading with his fists instead of his brain."

"I don't care who started it!" Tifa's eyes flash dangerously. "This is a student government fundraiser, not a playground."

The crowd begins to disperse, realizing the show is over. Tifa grabs my arm and pulls me away from the table, her grip tight enough to hurt.

"What is wrong with you?" she demands, her voice low and intense. "You promised me you wouldn't do this anymore. You promised things would be different here."

I open my mouth, but no explanation comes. How can I tell her that I'm drowning in jealousy? That every time I see her with someone else, I feel like I'm losing her all over again? That I'm terrified she'll realize what everyone else seems to know, that I'm not worth her time?

Her eyes search mine, looking for something I can't give her. After a moment, her hand drops from my arm. "Cloud..."

I step back, shame washing over me. "I have to go."

"Cloud, wait-"

But I'm already walking away, pushing through the crowd, ignoring the whispers that follow me. I head straight for the parking lot where my motorcycle waits, the one place I can outrun this burning humiliation, if only temporarily.

The engine roars to life under me, and I tear out of campus toward the open grasslands beyond Midgar, leaving behind the wreckage of another moment I can never take back.

---

The mechanical engineering lab is empty except for me and the quiet hum of equipment. Just how I like it. Here, with circuit boards and soldering irons, problems have solutions. Unlike people. Unlike feelings.

I adjust my magnifying lamp, focusing on the custom circuit board for my motorcycle engine enhancement project. The delicate copper pathways gleam under the bright light as I carefully maneuver the micro-soldering iron. One wrong move and weeks of work go up in smoke. But my hands, so clumsy around Tifa, so violent in the ring, find precision here. They know what to do, moving with a confidence the rest of me never feels.

I lose myself in the work, in the meditative process of joining metal to metal with heat and focus. This circuit board will regulate fuel injection in real-time, adapting to elevation changes and atmospheric pressure. It's my own design, inspired by the modified engines used in the Junon military vehicles but streamlined for a civilian motorcycle. If it works, my bike will have better fuel efficiency and more power than anything on the commercial market.

Time dissolves as I work. The world narrows to the golden tip of the soldering iron, the thin ribbon of solder, and the intricate pathways I'm connecting. My breathing slows, synchronizing with each deliberate movement. Here, I'm not the loser who can't tell his best friend he's in love with her. I'm just... capable.

"Not bad, Strife."

I startle slightly but manage not to jerk the iron. Professor Highwind stands behind me, arms crossed, a rare look of approval on his weathered face. I didn't hear him come in, but the fact that he smells like an ashtray certainly helped announce his arrival.

"Thanks," I mutter, carefully setting down the soldering iron.

Cid picks up my schematic, studying it with a critical eye. "Pressure-adaptive fuel injection for a civilian bike? Ambitious."

"It's just an idea I'm playing with."

"It's fucking brilliant is what it is." He tosses the schematic back onto the bench. "You know most of your classmates are still trying to figure out basic timing circuits, right? You're designing systems SOLDIER would want for their vehicles."

I shrug, uncomfortable with the praise. "It's not that special."

"The hell it isn't." Cid chews on the unlit cigarette that perpetually hangs from his lips. "Smart kid like you should be working with Shinra Engineering. Not wasting time brawling in the damn dirt."

What Cid doesn't understand is that being good with machines doesn't make me worth anything in the real world. Not when guys like Rufus Shinra are born into power and influence. Not when guys like Emilio have the easy confidence and charm I'll never possess.

I adjust the circuit board under the light, checking my work. "Just trying to make my bike run better."

Cid snorts. "Sure, kid. Like Shinra Aerospace was 'just trying' to put a man in space." He leans against the workbench. "Speaking of which, they're picking up interns next semester for the new rocket project in Rocket Town. Mechanical engineers with practical experience."

I look up, genuinely interested despite myself. "For the space program?"

"Yep. Working directly on rocket engines and life support systems. Real cutting-edge shit." He taps my circuit board. "Someone who can design adaptive systems like this would be a shoo-in."

Something stirs in my chest, a remnant of dreams I often admit are far beyond my reach. Engineering that matters. Building something that could outlast me.

But Rocket Town is across the continent. If I went there for an internship, I'd be leaving Midgar. Leaving Tifa.

The thought feels like a physical pain. Even with things so messed up between us, even knowing she deserves better than me, I can't imagine not seeing her every day. Not waking up to her bringing me breakfast. Not studying on her dorm room floor.

"Think about it," Cid says, correctly reading my hesitation. "Application deadline's not for another month. Palmer's an old drinking buddy of mine. I could put in a word."

I nod, filing the information away. An escape route, maybe. If things get worse. If watching Tifa move on without me becomes unbearable.

"I'll think about it," I say, picking up the soldering iron again.

Cid grunts in acknowledgment and leaves me to my work. I return to the circuit board, to the problems I can actually solve, trying not to think about the one problem I can't.

Tifa.

---

The rumor hits me like a sucker punch between classes. Two guys from student government, talking loudly enough for everyone to hear:

"Rufus asked Tifa Lockhart to the gala."

My world narrows to a painful pinpoint. Of course he did. Ofcourseshe'd go with him. Why wouldn't she? He's Rufus fucking Shinra, and I'm-what? A mechanic masquerading as an engineer? Ajackass with anger issues and a camera full of pictures I'm too much of a coward to show her? Storming out of the quad, I skip my next class. Then the one after that. What's the point? Everything I've worked for at Midgar Academy suddenly feels hollow, a pathetic attempt to stay in the orbit of a star that's moving beyond my reach.

The rest of the week blurs into a haze of self-destruction. I skip breakfast, slipping out of my dorm before the times Tifa usually comes by. I take alternate routes across campus, ducking into empty classrooms when I spot her in the distance. I miss our scheduled study sessions with half-assed text excuses about project deadlines.

At night, I train until my muscles scream for mercy, until sweat soaks through my shirt and my vision blurs from exhaustion. I push myself harder and harder, chasing the clean simplicity of physical pain over the messy complexity of heartbreak. Zack gives up trying to talk to me after the second day, when I nearly take his head off with a wild punch during sparring.

I know I'm being irrational. I know I have no claim to Tifa, no right to feel betrayed. But logic has nothing to do with the gnawing emptiness in my chest.

Thursday night - the night of the gala - I ride my motorcycle out to the wasteland beyond Midgar's walls and push the engine to dangerous speeds, the wind stinging my eyes, the roar drowning out my thoughts. I imagine Tifa in some elegant dress, Rufus's hand on the small of her back, leading her onto the dance floor. The image makes me drive faster, taking curves too sharply, flirting with disaster.

By Sunday, I've missed five classes, barely slept, and eaten just enough to keep functioning. My phone is filled with concerned texts from Tifa that I can't bring myself to answer. Each one is a twist of the knife.

[Tifa️] Are you okay? Missed you at breakfast.

[Tifa️] Cloud? Where are you? We were supposed to study.

[Tifa️] Zack said you've been skipping classes. What's going on?

[Tifa️] Please talk to me…

The last one, sent late Saturday night:

[Tifa️]Imiss you.

I'm crossing the quad on Monday, head down, hands shoved in my pockets, when I hear her voice.

"Cloud!"

I consider pretending I didn't hear her, but her footsteps are already closing in. I stop, not turning around until her hand touches my arm.

"Hey," she says, slightly breathless. There are shadows under her eyes that match my own. "You've been avoiding me."

It's not a question. We know each other too well for that.

"Been busy," I mutter, not meeting her gaze.

"Too busy to answer a text? To let me know you're alive?" There's hurt beneath her anger, and it makes me feel even worse. "Zack said you've barely been sleeping in your dorm."

I shrug. "Didn't know you were keeping tabs."

"Of course I am! I've been worried sick about you." She steps closer, lowering her voice. "Is this about what happened at the bake sale? Because I'm not mad anymore-"

"How was the gala?" I interrupt, my voice cold even to my own ears. "Rufus show you a good time?"

She recoils like I've slapped her. "What?"

"The gala. Thursday night. With Rufus. I heard he asked you." The words taste bitter in my mouth.

Confusion flashes across her face, quickly replaced by hurt. "I didn'tgoto the gala with Rufus. I turned him down."

For a second, relief floods through me, but it's quickly followed by shame. I've been torturing myself over nothing. Worse, I've been hurting her over nothing.

"Whatever," I say, unable to back down now, trapped in the persona I've created. "Not like it matters who you date."

"Clearly it does, or you wouldn't be acting like this." Her voice trembles slightly. "What happened to you, Cloud? You're not the person I-" She stops, blinking fast. "Never mind. Call me when my friend comes back."

She walks away, shoulders stiff with hurt, and I hate myself with an intensity that leaves me breathless. I want to run after her, to apologize, to tell her everything. Instead, I stand frozen, watching her disappear into the crowd of students.

"Nice job, Strife." Emilio's voice comes from behind me, dripping with contempt. "You really know how to treat a girl who's way out of your league."

I turn slowly to face him. His cheek is still slightly swollen from the bake sale incident. Good.

"Fuck off, Emilio."

"You know, I always wondered why Tifa wastes her time on you." He steps closer, voice low enough that only I can hear. "But we all know it's because you're her charity case. The poor kid whose mom worked as a maid in Nibelheim. She feels sorry for you, just like she always has."

Each word hits like a physical blow. My worst fears articulated by the person I hate most.

"At least with Rufus, I have to work a little harder to compete," he continues, smirking. "But you? You never had a shot. You've always been nothing more than a pity project to her."

Something inside me snaps. All the pain, rage, and self-loathing of the past week coalesce into a single point of fury. My fist connects with his face before I've even made the conscious decision to hit him. He drops like a stone, blood spurting from his nose.

Gasps ripple through the quad. Emilio sprawls on the ground, clutching his face, a nasty shiner already blooming around his left eye. A few students rush toward him while others back away from me, eyes wide with shock.

I don't stay to deal with the fallout. I walk away, fists still clenched at my sides, ignoring the whispers that follow me. My knuckles throb in time with my heartbeat, but the pain feels distant, secondary to the storm raging inside me.

I head straight for the campus rec center, needing to burn through this toxic mix of emotions before I do something even worse.

---

The campus rec center is my penance chapel today. Each punch I throw is an act of self-flagellation, each hit I take a deserved punishment. I'm barely warmed up before I challenge Biggs to a full-contact match, ignoring his raised eyebrows and concerned glance toward Zack. Biggs is built like a brick wall and has actual boxing experience, not just the street fighting I picked up. This isn't a smart match-up on a good day, and today is anything but good. That's exactly why I want it. I need to feel something other than the hollow ache in my chest where Tifa used to be.

"You sure about this, Strife?" Biggs asks as we circle each other in the ring. "You're looking a little ragged, man."

I answer with a wild haymaker that he easily dodges. Sloppy. I'm always sloppy when I'm emotional. Barret shouts something from the sidelines about keeping my guard up, but his voice sounds distant, underwater.

"Come on, Biggs," I taunt, dropping my hands deliberately. "Don't hold back."

Biggs' eyes narrow, but he obliges with a swift jab that catches me in the ribs. The pain is clarifying, a bright point of focus in the fog of my thoughts. I grin through my mouthguard, which seems to unnerve him more than my recklessness.

I fight like a man possessed, abandoning technique for raw aggression. When Biggs connects with a solid right hook, I barely feel it. When I land a hit, I push the advantage too far, leaving myself open for counters I should see coming. It's not fighting, but pure self-destruction dressed up as combat.

"The hell are you doing, Strife?" Barret bellows from the corner. "This ain't a bar fight! Use your damn head!"

I ignore him, lunging at Biggs again. He sidesteps, letting me stumble past, then catches me with a textbook uppercut that makes my teeth clack together. Blood fills my mouth from where I've bitten my cheek.

Three minutes into the first round, I see an opening- Biggs drops his left guard slightly as he throws a cross. I pivot, throwing all my weight behind a crushing right hook. But Biggs is faster than I anticipated, already shifting away. My fist misses his jaw and connects with the padded corner post instead.

Pain explodes up my arm as something in my hand gives way with a sickening pop. I stagger back, cradling my injured hand, Barret and Zack both surging forward.

"Fight's over!" Barret roars, stepping between us. He takes one look at my already swelling hand and explodes. "What the hell was that? You trying to end your fighting career before it starts? Or you just got a death wish I don't know about?"

I spit blood onto the canvas. "It's fine."

"It ain't fine! Nothing about this is fine!" Barret's face is inches from mine, his prosthetic arm gesturing wildly. "I've seen you fight smart, Strife. This wasn't smart. This was stupid and reckless and you're damn lucky it's just your hand and not your neck!"

Biggs climbs out of the ring, shaking his head. "Sorry, man. Didn't mean to actually hurt you."

"Not your fault," Zack says, eyes never leaving my face. "Cloud knew exactly what he was doing."

Barret steps back, disgust evident in his expression. "Get out of my ring. Take a week off. Figure out whatever shit you're going through before you come back, 'cause I'm not watching you self-destruct on my watch."

I climb through the ropes, oddly calm despite the throbbing in my hand. The pain feels right somehow. Deserved.

Zack follows me to the bleachers where I slump down, cradling my injured hand. For a minute, he just stands there, vibrating with barely contained fury.

"What the actual fuck, Cloud?" he finally erupts. "Is this about Tifa? About the rumor she went to the gala with Rufus? Because if you'd bothered to actually talk to her instead of disappearing for days, you'd know she turned him down!"

I stare at the floor, unable to meet his eyes. "I know. She told me."

"Then what is this? Why are you spiraling like this?" He paces in front of me. "You're skipping classes, missing meals, pushing yourself until you break. This isn't you, man. This is you becoming someone you're not, all because you can't handle your feelings for a girl you've known your entire life?"

His words hit harder than any punch. Because he's right, and we both know it.

"You don't understand," I mutter.

"Then explain it to me! Because from where I'm standing, my best friend is throwing away everything that matters, including his friendship with the girl he loves, because he's too scared to admit how he feels!"

Before I can respond, Aerith appears at Zack's side, her hand on his arm. I hadn't even noticed her in the gym. She must have been watching the whole time.

"Let me talk to him," she says softly. Zack hesitates, then nods, stepping back but not leaving.

Aerith sits beside me on the bleachers, her usual mischievous demeanor subdued. "You're not the only one hurting, you know."

I laugh bitterly. "Yeah, I'm sure Tifa's real broken up about it."

"She is." Aerith's voice is gentle but firm. "She's in love with you, Cloud."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "No, she's not."

"Yes, she is. Has been for years."

I shake my head. This has to be some kind of cruel joke. "She's kind to everyone. That's just who she is."

"Is that what you think this is? Kindness?" Aerith looks genuinely confused. "The way she wakes you up every morning? The food she brings you? The way she keeps your schedule better than her own? The way she looks at you when you're not paying attention?"

Each question feels like a nail being driven into my chest. "She feels sorry for me. That's all."

Aerith sighs, exchanging a glance with Zack. "You're both so stubborn it's actually painful to watch. Look, you want the truth about the student government gala? Tifa turned Rufus down even though it might hurt her position in student government. She told him she had other plans."

"What plans?" I ask, despite myself.

"She spent gala night in our dorm room, in her pajamas, watching movies and baking cookies." Aerith's voice softens. "She kept checking her phone the whole time, hoping you'd text. Hoping you'd come over like you usually do on Thursday nights."

I stare at my swollen hand, trying to process this. It doesn't make sense. Tifa is brilliant, beautiful, destined for greatness. She could have anyone. Why would she waste time pining for me?

"You don't believe me," Aerith observes sagely.

"It doesn't matter," I say finally. "I've ruined everything anyway. You didn't see her face today when I…" I can't even finish the sentence, the memory of Tifa's hurt expression too painful to revisit.

Aerith stands, smoothing her skirt. "You know what I think? I think you're so convinced you don't deserve her that you're sabotaging yourself. Pushing her away before she can reject you."

She walks away, leaving me with that uncomfortable truth ringing in my ears. Zack gives me one last look of disappointment mixed in a cauldron of pity before following her.

I sit alone on the bleachers, nursing my injured hand, wondering if there's any way to fix what I've broken. Not just my hand, but everything else. My friendship with Tifa. My self-respect. My future.

And I wonder, for the first time, if Aerith could possibly be right.

Could Tifa really love someone like me?

---

I walk out of the gym with a bag of ice pressed to my throbbing hand, shame and self-loathing following me like a shadow. Zack's words echo in my head along with Aerith's impossible suggestion that Tifa could love me. None of it makes sense. None of it fits with what I know to be true, that I'm a mess, a failure, unworthy of someone like her. I'm so caught in this downward spiral of thoughts that I almost miss her.

Almost.

Some part of me is always attuned to Tifa's presence, like a compass needle finding true north. Through the glass walls of the dojo across the rec center, I see her, a blur of controlled motion, power and grace embodied.

I stop, transfixed. Tifa moves through her martial arts forms with fluid precision, each strike and block a testament to years of discipline. She's alone in the dojo, practicing in the gap between scheduled classes. Her face is a mask of concentration, sweat glistening on her skin as she executes a complex series of kicks that seem to defy gravity, her ponytail whirling around her body like the ribbons of a bandleader's baton.

Without conscious thought, I drift toward the dojo. There's a spectator bench just inside the door, and I slip onto it silently, not wanting to break her focus. I know I should leave. Our last interaction ended with her walking away hurt, and I'm in no shape for another confrontation. But I can't tear my eyes away from her.

I pull out my camera, ice pack balanced awkwardly on my injured . Tifa mid-leap, her body a perfect arc through the . Her face in profile, determination written in the set of her . The moment her fist connects with the practice dummy, power contained and directed.

She's so different from me. Where I fight with raw emotion and barely contained rage, she fights with discipline and purpose. Every movement is intentional, economical. Beautiful.

I'm so entranced that I don't notice when she spots me. The rhythm of her practice falters, just slightly, but enough that I know I've been seen. I lower my camera too late, caught in the act.

Tifa stops, chest heaving from exertion, and turns fully toward me. Her eyes go immediately to my injured hand, the already discoloring bruises visible despite the ice pack.

She's shaking. Not with anger, as I expected, but with something worse. Fear. It hits me like a punch to the gut.

Tifa Lockhart is afraid. For me.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" Her voice is quiet but intense, carrying across the empty dojo.

I say nothing, because what can I say? That I'm trying to punish myself for wanting things I can't have? That physical pain is easier than the alternative?

She crosses the mats toward me, stopping just out of arm's reach. "I've watched you spiral for weeks now. Skipping classes. Training until you can barely stand. Picking fights." She gestures at my hand. "And now this. What are you trying to prove, Cloud? And to who?"

I stare at the floor, unable to meet her gaze. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me." The challenge in her voice forces my eyes up to hers. "Because from where I stand, you're destroying yourself. You're wasting the best parts of who you are."

"And what parts are those?" The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.

"The parts I fell in -" She stops, swallows. "The hands that fix bikes. The ones that hold cameras. The mind that solves problems no one else can see." Her voice softens. "What happened to the boy who rescued Maru from the Nibel reactor when we were thirteen? Who spent three hours in a storm drain coaxing her out because I was crying too hard to do it myself?"

The memory hits me with unexpected force. Tifa's cat, gone missing for two days. The look of devastation on her face that had sent me searching all over Nibelheim in the pouring rain. Finding Maru trapped in a drainage pipe near the old reactor. Getting soaked and muddy and not caring because Tifa's smile when I returned with her cat made it all worth it.

"That's not who I am anymore," I say quietly.

"Yes, it is. It's who you've always been." She steps closer, close enough that I can smell the clean sweat on her skin. "But you're burying him under all this... this pretending. Trying to be some tough guy who doesn't care about anything or anyone. That's not you, Cloud."

"Maybe it is now." I can't tell her the truth, that I started fighting because I thought it would make me worthy of her. That I thought strength was the only currency I had to offer her.

Tifa shakes her head, disappointment radiating from her. "Then I don't know where I fit anymore. Because the Cloud I knew -my Cloud- he cared. Too much, sometimes. He fixed things. Built things. Saw beauty in broken places." Her voice breaks slightly.

"I miss him."

The words land like body Cloud. As if I ever belonged to her. As if she ever wanted me to.

"Quit pretending to be a bad boy, Cloud. It doesn't suit you." She turns away, gathering her gym bag. "And if you keep this up, you're going to lose a lot more than just a few fights."

I sit frozen as she walks out, unable to call her back, to explain, to apologize. The ice in my hand has melted completely, water dripping between my fingers onto the polished floor. I watch it pool there, a perfect mirror for the emptiness spreading inside me.

She's right. I know she's right. I'm losing myself in this persona I've created, this armor I've built to protect the vulnerable parts of me that love her too much.

But I don't know how to stop.

---

I slip into the back of the packed lecture hall like a ghost, keeping to the shadows. It's been days since our confrontation in the dojo, days of avoiding each other in increasingly elaborate ways. But I couldn't stay away from this. Flyers have been plastered all over campus and the social media pages for a week: "Corporate Ethics Debate: Freshman Representative Tifa Lockhart vs. Student Body President Rufus Shinra." I tell myself I'm here to scope out the competition, to see what Rufus has that I don't. But that's bullshit. I'm here because I can't help myself. Because even when it hurts to be near her, it hurts more to be away.

My hand is still wrapped in an ace bandage, the bruises fading to a sickly yellow-green. The athletic trainer says I'm lucky it's just a sprain, not a break. I don't feel lucky. I feel hollow, emptied out by the last few weeks of self-destruction.

The lecture hall is packed with students and faculty. Political science majors scribble in notebooks, ready to analyze every argument. Business students cluster together, most looking ready to side with Rufus regardless of what's said. And scattered throughout are regular students drawn by the promise of intellectual combat between two campus stars.

At the front of the room, a podium has been set up on either side of a small stage. Rufus already stands at one, the picture of composed confidence in his tailored sharkskin suit, not a strand of flaxen hair out of place. He looks like he was born for this, and in a way, he was. Heir to Shinra Electric, groomed since birth to defend corporate interests with a smug, icy smile.

Tifa enters from a side door, and my breath catches. She's wearing a simple dark blazer over a burgundy blouse, her hair coiled on top of her head in a swooping bun and adorned with lotus-flower chopsticks. Professional. Poised. But I can see the signs of her nervousness, the slight tension in her shoulders, the way she adjusts her notecards one last time. Butterflies before battle, just like when we were kids and she'd compete in martial arts tournaments.

The level of effort it takes to keep me from going to her and wrapping my arms around her in reassurance is abysmal.

The moderator - Professor Bugenhagen of the Philosophy department - introduces the topic:"The Ethics of Corporate Expansion in Marginalized Communities."Rufus will defend Shinra Electric's development policies. Tifa will argue for community-based approaches and corporate accountability. The topic isn't surprising given Midgar's dependence on Mako energy and the growing environmental concerns surrounding its extraction. What is surprising is the ferocity with which Tifa attacks the issue when her turn comes.

Rufus speaks first, all polished rhetoric and carefully crafted statistics. He makes corporate expansion sound inevitable, benevolent, even: a rising tide that lifts all boats. He's . The kind of speaker who could convince you to thank him while he picks your pocket.

Then Tifa steps to the podium.

"Mr. Shinra speaks of rising tides," she begins, her voice clear and steady. "But tides are indiscriminate forces of nature. Corporations are not. They make choices, choices that prioritize profit over people, expansion over sustainability, extraction over equity."

She launches into presenting carefully organized supporting evidence, citing case studies of communities destroyed by corporate development. She speaks of her hometown, without naming it directly, describing how the installation of a Mako reactor changed the economic and social fabric of the community.

"When corporations enter vulnerable communities, they don't just bring jobs and infrastructure," she says, passion building in her voice. "They bring power dynamics that transform those communities from the inside out. They create dependencies, not opportunities."

She's magnificent. Fierce and unrelenting, but never losing the thread of empathy that makes her arguments more than just intellectual exercises. She speaks with the authority of someone who has lived what she's describing, not just studied it.

"The argument that profit justifies environmental degradation isn't just ethically bankrupt, it's economically short-sighted," she continues, her voice clear and confident. "Shinra Electric's own data shows that sustainable Mako harvesting yields greater long-term returns than the current extraction methods."

Rufus leans toward his microphone. "Those projections fail to account for market fluctuations and increased operational costs-"

"I've accounted for both," Tifa interrupts, flipping through her notes with practiced precision. "Page seventeen of my supplemental materials. The numbers speak for themselves."

She continues her assault, methodically dismantling Rufus's arguments point by point. There's a precision to her debate style that reminds me of her martial arts training: identify the weakness, strike with controlled force, never waste energy on unnecessary movements. She doesn't raise her voice or resort to emotional appeals. She doesn't need to. Her command of the facts and the moral clarity of her position are devastating enough.

Rufus, for all his privilege and preparation, looks increasingly uncomfortable. When he attempts to pivot to Shinra's charitable initiatives, Tifa is ready.

"Charity is not a substitute for ethical business practices," she says, and a murmur of approval ripples through the audience. "You can't poison a community's water supply, then expect gratitude for donating to their medical clinics."

I find myself leaning forward in my seat, hanging on her every word. This is a side of Tifa I've glimpsed but never fully appreciated, the brilliant mind behind the kind eyes, the warrior spirit that fights with words as effectively as fists.

I slide my camera from my bag, moving to one of the corners for a better . Tifa gesturing emphatically, fire in her . The precise moment she counters one of Rufus's points, a small triumphant smile playing at her . The respectful but unyielding way she addresses Professor Bugenhagen's follow-up questions.

By the end of the debate, the energy in the room has shifted. Rufus is still composed, still charismatic, but he's been forced to defend positions he clearly hadn't expected to be challenged. Tifa has won over more than just the political science majors- she's made the entire room think critically about corporate responsibility.

When it's over, applause fills the hall. Students surge forward to congratulate both debaters, but lauding Tifa, who clearly won the debate. Even Rufus manages to field her a grudging handshake and what appears to be a genuine compliment. I hang back, not sure if I should approach her after everything that's happened. But as the crowd begins to disperse, our paths cross near the exit.

There's a long pause. She's glowing from the intellectual exertion, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache. I manage a weak smile, hoping it conveys at least a fraction of my admiration.

She tilts her head slightly, those wine-dark eyes searching my face for something. Her lips part as if she's about to speak, and I feel myself leaning forward unconsciously, desperate to hear whatever she might say.

The moment stretches, taut with possibility. I could say something. Tell her how brilliant she was. How proud I am. How sorry I am for everything.

But before I can gather my courage, her political science professor appears at her elbow.

"Ms. Lockhart! Exceptional work today. Your counter-arguments on resource distribution were particularly insightful." Dr. Sheiran beams at his star student. "Several faculty members would like to speak with you about your sources on Corel's economic transformation."

The spell breaks. Tifa gives me one last look. It seems…regretful? Hopeful? I can't tell before she's allowing herself to be led away by her professor.

Aerith, who was apparently in the audience supporting her roommate, passes me on her way to follow Tifa. She pauses just long enough to give me a knowing look that makes me want to disappear into the floor.

"She was waiting for you to say something," she murmurs with a roll of her eyes. "Anything."

Then she's gone, leaving me alone with the weight of another missed opportunity.

I clutch my camera, the only evidence that I was here, that I witnessed Tifa's moment of triumph.

---

The darkroom is its own universe at night. Under the blood-red safelights, time loses meaning, and the outside world ceases to exist. It's just me, the chemicals, and the images emerging from blank paper like ghosts summoned from nothing. I work methodically, hands steady despite the lingering soreness in my sprained wrist, as Tifa's face appears in the developer tray. It's from the debate, her in mid-argument, eyes alight with passion, one hand raised to emphasize her point. She looks powerful. Unreachable. A star burning too bright for someone like me to touch without being incinerated.

I carefully lift the print with tongs, transferring it to the stop bath, then the fixer. Another image starts to form in the developer, Tifa and Rufus facing off across the stage, a study in contrasts. His corporate polish against her authentic fire. His inherited confidence against her earned authority. I took this shot from the side of the lecture hall, capturing their profiles in perfect opposition.

Print after print emerges: Tifa consulting her notes, Tifa responding to a question, Tifa in that brief moment after the debate when our eyes met and I failed, yet again, to say what needed saying. I clip them to the drying line strung across the room, creating a timeline of her triumph.

Seeing her debate Rufus changed something in me. I've always known Tifa was smart, but watching her dismantle corporate arguments with precision and passion made me realize how much I've underestimated her. And how much further she's going to go in life, probably without me. The distance between us feels greater than ever, a chasm widened by my own self-destructive choices.

I'm so absorbed in my work, in my thoughts, that I don't hear the darkroom door open until it's too late.

"So this is where you've been hiding." Zack's voice makes me jump, nearly dropping the print I'm holding.

I spin around to find him and Aerith standing just inside the door, their faces eerily illuminated by the red light. Aerith's smile has a predatory edge that makes me want to cover my prints like they're something shameful.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, trying to sound annoyed rather than caught.

"Looking for you," Zack says, moving further into the room. "You weren't at the dorm or the gym, so we figured..."

His voice trails off as he notices the drying line. The dozens of images of Tifa hanging there like my feelings made visible. His eyebrows rise as he takes in the scale of my obsession.

"Cloud," Aerith breathes, stepping closer to examine one of the debate photos. "These are..."

"Creepy? Stalkerish?" I supply, heat rising to my face. "Save the lecture, I already know."

"I was going to say beautiful," she corrects gently. "The way you've captured her… it's like seeing Tifa through your eyes."

Zack moves along the line, studying each image. "Dude, these are seriously good. Like, professional quality good." He points to one where Tifa is caught in a moment of quiet contemplation between debate points. "The composition on this one? The lighting? This isn't just someone with a camera, this is art."

I shake my head, uncomfortable with their praise. "It's nothing. Just a hobby."

"Bullshit," Zack says. "I've been your roommate for two semesters, and I've never seen you care about anything the way you care about these photos." He gestures at the drying line. "This isn't 'nothing.' This is passion. This is how you see the world."

"How you seeher," Aerith adds softly.

I turn back to the developing tray, unable to face their scrutiny. "It doesn't matter. These aren't for anyone else to see. They're personal."

"But they'regood, Cloud," Aerith insists. "Really good. The campus art showcase is next week. You should submit some of these-"

"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "These aren't... they're not real art. They're just me being pathetic, taking pictures of a girl who doesn't-" I stop, swallowing hard. "They're private, okay?"

There's a moment of silence, broken only by the quiet drip of water from the drying prints. Then Zack's hand lands on my shoulder, a solid weight that grounds me.

"Okay," he says simply. "We'll drop it."

I should know better than to trust the easy capitulation in his voice, the too-innocent smile Aerith gives me. But I'm too relieved they're not pushing the issue to notice the calculating look they exchange over my head.

"We'll leave you to it," Aerith says, already backing toward the door. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay after... everything."

"I'm fine," I lie, turning back to my work.

They leave me alone with my chemicals and my obsession, and I miss entirely the hushed conversation in the hallway, the plans formed in whispers and knowing looks.

I'm too focused on developing the next image, the juxtaposition I've been working on for weeks. Young Tifa on the water tower, looking up at the stars with wonder. Adult Tifa asleep in the library, bathed in sunlight. Night and day. Past and Light, I've titled it in my mind. The piece that best captures what she means to me, what she's always meant.

Too private to ever show. Too honest to ever hide from myself.

---

I shouldn't be here. The Creative Arts Showcase is packed with people I don't know displaying talent I don't have. But here I am anyway, some masochistic part of me wanting to see what real photographers are doing, comparing myself to people who actually deserve attention. The gallery space is transformed tonight, track lighting highlighting framed prints, digital displays cycling through curated collections, clusters of students and faculty moving between exhibits with plastic cups of cheap wine and expressions of pretentious appreciation. I keep to the edges, hands shoved in my pockets, telling myself I'm just gathering ideas for my own work.

Not true. I'm punishing myself, really. Another form of self-flagellation to join my collection.

The work on display is impressive, I'll admit. Landscapes that capture the stark beauty of the wasteland beyond Midgar's walls. Portraits that reveal something essential about their subjects. Street photography that transforms ordinary moments into art. I drift from exhibit to exhibit, a knot of inadequacy tightening in my chest. These people know what they're doing. They have vision, technique, purpose.

I round a corner, heading toward the digital photography section, and freeze mid-step. My heart stutters to a halt, then explodes into a frantic rhythm that makes me lightheaded.

On the largest screen in the gallery, projected six feet tall, is Tifa's face.

My photo. My private, never-meant-to-be-seen photo of Tifa at the debate, captured in that perfect moment when passion made her incandescent.

It changes to another image as I stand there, paralyzed. Tifa laughing with friends outside the science building. Tifa practicing forms in the dojo, a study in controlled power. Tifa stirring cookie batter in the dorm's common room kitchen, a streak of flour on her cheek.

Image after image, moments I stole in secret, now displayed for everyone to see. My chest constricts with each new picture, making it hard to breathe. There must be dozens of them, each more intimate than the last, each revealing not just Tifa, but how I see her. How I've always seen her.

The slideshow reaches its climax with my most private creation, the digital composition I'd titledMy Lightin the silence of my own thoughts. Young Tifa on the Nibelheim water tower, her face tilted up to a sky full of stars, a dreamy expression softening her features. Beside it, adult Tifa asleep in the library, sunlight streaming across her face, creating the same pattern of light and shadow. The past and present merged into a single statement of enduring love.

Gasps ripple through the crowd gathered around the display. I hear murmurs of appreciation, someone commenting on the "emotional resonance" of the juxtaposition. Professor Valentine, slender fingers tipped to his chin, points out the technical skill in maintaining consistent light values across two images taken years apart.

But all I can focus on is Tifa, standing directly in front of the screen, completely still, her hand pressed to her mouth. Even from here, I can see the tears in her eyes, the slight tremble in her shoulders.

I've humiliated her. Exposed her. Turned our friendship into a spectacle for public consumption.

"Quite the obsession you've got there, Strife."

Rufus Shinra's smooth voice comes from just behind me, dripping with amusement and condescension. "I'm not sure whether to be impressed or concerned. How many photos of her do you have? Hundreds? Thousands?"

"Stalker much?" Emilio's laughter cuts through the ambient noise of the gallery. "Always knew you were a creep, Cloud, but this is next level."

Heat floods my face, shame burning through me like acid. My private feelings, my most vulnerable self, are laid bare for everyone to judge and mock. I scan the room, looking for the culprits, and spot Zack and Aerith near the entrance, their expressions a mix of pride and concern.

They did this. They took my private work, my sacred confessions, and put them on display without my permission. Betrayed by my best friend and his girlfriend, the two people besides Tifa I actually trusted.

My heart races, pounds, aches with fear and humiliation. I can't be here. Can't face the pitying looks, the snickers, the inevitable moment when Tifa walks over to tell me to stay away from her.

I push through the crowd, not caring who I bump into, needing only to escape. Behind me, I hear Zack call my name, but I don't stop. Ican'tstop. Outside, the cool night air hits my face, but it does nothing to ease the burning shame inside me.

"Cloud, wait!" Zack catches up to me in the courtyard, grabbing my arm. "It's not what you think, buddy, we were trying to help! Your work is amazing, we just wanted everyone to see-"

"I'm done," I cut him off, jerking away from his grip. "Done with you, done with Midgar, done with all of this."

"Cloud, please -"

"Stay away from me." The words come out cold, final. "Both of you."

I turn to leave and catch one last glimpse through the gallery windows. Tifa is still staring at my photos, tears streaming down her face. The sight shatters something inside me. I've made her cry. Made her ashamed to be the subject of my obsession.

I walk away, everything in me screaming to run back to her, to apologize, to explain. But what explanation could possibly be enough? How do you justify years of secretly documenting someone's life without their knowledge? How do you admit that you've been in love with your best friend since before you knew what love was?

You don't. You just leave, like the coward you've always been.

Behind me, inside the gallery I'll never enter again, the showcase judges announce their top award to a piece calledMy Lightby Cloud Strife, a composition they describe as "a profound statement on the constancy of love across time."

But I'm already gone, heading for my dorm to pack, to call Cid about that internship in Rocket Town, to disappear from Tifa's life before I can hurt her any more than I already have.

---

The campus observatory sits at the highest point of Midgar Academy, a dome of glass and steel that seems to float above the rest of the world. It's where Tifa and I have come to stargaze since our first week here, the one place that felt like ours alone. Now it feels like a mausoleum for everything I've lost. I sit on the padded bench circling the massive telescope, face in my hands, tears leaking between my fingers. I can't remember the last time I cried. But tonight, watching my most private feelings projected six feet tall for the entire school to see, something in me has finally broken beyond repair.

Outside, rain lashes against the glass dome, distorting the few stars visible through Midgar's perpetual haze. The observatory is technically closed at this hour, but I know how to override the electronic lock, a trick Tifa and I discovered during our first semester when we'd sneak up here to escape dormitory curfews. We'd spend hours identifying constellations, talking about everything and nothing, pretending we were back in Nibelheim where the stars were bright enough to illuminate our faces.

It feels appropriate that I'm ending my time at Midgar Academy here, in the place where I've felt closest to the sky and to her.

I pull out my phone with shaking hands and dial my mother's number. It's late in Nibelheim, but she answers on the second ring, voice thick with sleep.

"Cloud? What's wrong?"

Mothers always know.

"I'm leaving Midgar," I say, my voice cracking. "I'm transferring to Rocket Town for an engineering internship."

"What? Why?" She's fully awake now, concern sharpening her words. "What happened?"

"I messed up, Mom. I messed up everything with Tifa." The sobs come then, hard and ugly, tearing out of me like they're being ripped from somewhere deep. I tell her everything- the photos, the showcase, the public humiliation. My mother is the one person I can trust, even with things like this. I've never really opened up to her about Tifa before, but I'm at the point of no return now.

"She must hate me now. Everyone does. I can't stay here."

"Oh, sweetheart." Claudia's voice is gentle, a balm I don't deserve. "Tifa could never hate you. That girl has loved you since you guys were children."

"No," I insist. "You don't understand. You didn't see her face when she saw those photos. She was crying, Mom. I made hercry."

"Did you ever think she might have been crying because she was moved? Because she finally saw how you see her?" My mother's voice takes on that tone she uses when she thinks I'm being particularly dense. "Thea and I used to talk about how you two would end up together. She's always seen what I've seen in you, Cloud-that you're enough. You've always been enough."

I shake my head, though she can't see me. "It doesn't matter now. I can't face her after this. The internship starts in two weeks. I'm packing tonight."

"Cloud-"

"I have to go, Mom. I'll call you tomorrow." I hang up before she can try to talk me out of it, before her faith in me makes me question what I know I have to do.

I stand, ready to head back to my dorm and start packing, when the observatory door flies open. Tifa stands there, silhouetted against the hallway light, soaking wet from the rain, chest heaving like she's run the entire way from the gallery.

"I knew you'd be here," she says, stepping inside. Water drips from her hair, her blouse, her skirt, forming puddles on the floor. She must have run across campus in the downpour, not bothering with an umbrella or a coat.

I take an instinctive step back. "Tifa, I…"

"No," she cuts me off, advancing into the room. "You don't get to run away from me again, Cloud. Not this time." Her voice shakes with emotion, but her eyes are fierce, determined. "You've been running from me since we got to Midgar, and I'm done chasing you."

"I wasn't running," I protest weakly. "I was trying to-"

"To what? Protect me? Protect yourself?" She's close enough now that I can see the mascara streaked down her cheeks, mingling with rain and tears. "Trying to be some tough guy you're not. Pushing yourself until you break."

"I was trying to be worthy of you!" The words explode out of me, raw and honest. I run a hand through my hair, desperate for her to understand. "When I saw you with Rufus and Emilio, it just confirmed what I already knew… that you deserve better than this. Better than me."

"Stop it." Tifa's voice breaks. "Stop telling me what I deserve. You don't get to decide that for me." She steps closer, her eyes blazing through her tears. "I want you. I'vealwayswanted you. Not the fighter or some big man on , Cloud. The boy who sees beauty in broken things. Who makes the world more beautiful just by looking at it."

She advances until we're face to face, her wet clothes brushing against mine. "I saw your photos tonight. I saw how you see me. No one has ever seen me like that… like I'm something precious and rare. Like I'm enough just as I am."

"You are," I whisper.

"So are you." Her hands come up to frame my face. "I'm so tired of pretending. I'm tired of the weight of everyone's expectations. I'm tired of being perfect all the time. The only place I feel like I can breathe is with you."

I stare at her, stunned, unable to process that this might be real, that her words and the softness of her skin on my cheeks is real. "Tifa, I-I'm broken. Messed up. I was going to transfer to Rocket Town, take that internship Cid offered..."

"I don't care if you're broken," she says fiercely. "We'll be broken together. Just don't leave me, Cloud. Please."

Before I can respond, she rises on her tiptoes and presses her lips to mine. The kiss is desperate, urgent, filled with years of wanting and denying and fearing. For a second, I'm too shocked to respond. Then something in me ignites, and I'm kissing her back with everything I've kept hidden for so long.

Her lips are soft but insistent against mine, her hands sliding into my hair to pull me closer. I can taste the salt of her tears, feel the dampness of her clothes seeping into mine. None of it matters. Nothing matters except this moment, this impossible reality where Tifa Lockhart is kissing me like I'm the air she needs to breathe.

"I love you," she whispers against my mouth. "I've always loved you."

And just like that, the universe realigns itself like the star shining above us.

Her lips move against mine with increasing urgency, and suddenly the years of wanting crystallize into this single moment. I pull her closer, one hand at the small of her back, the other tangled in her rain-damp hair. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, a half-sigh, half-moan that vibrates through me like an electric current. I've imagined this moment in a thousand different ways, but reality demolishes every fantasy. The taste of her, the softness of her skin, the way she presses herself against me like she's trying to eliminate any space between us is overwhelming and intoxicating. I'm drowning in her, and I never want to come up for air.

The observatory is our sanctuary tonight, the rain drumming against the glass dome creating a cocoon of white noise that insulates us from the world. The seating area is a circle of padded benches designed for stargazing, strewn with pillows and Cosmo Canyon-inspired blankets, remnants of the Astronomy Club's desert viewing party the night before. Tifa pulls me down onto this makeshift nest, her body a warm, damp weight against mine.

"Are you sure?" I whisper against her lips, needing to hear it even as her hands tug insistently at my shirt.

"I've never been more sure of anything," she breathes, her eyes holding mine in the dim light. "I want you, Cloud. All of you."

My heart thunders in my chest as I help her remove her rain-soaked blouse, revealing a simple black bra beneath. Her skin is cool from the rain, pebbled with goosebumps that I trace with reverent fingertips. Every touch feels monumental, sacred. This is Tifa -my Tifa- vulnerable and open to me in a way I've only dreamed about.

I kiss her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. I've never done anything like this before, and my hands tremble as they move over her, partly from nerves, partly from the overwhelming reality that this is happening. She arches into my touch, helping me unhook her bra, guiding my hands to where she wants them.

"Like this," she whispers, showing me how to touch her, how to draw the little gasps and sighs that make my blood boil. Her nipples harden under my palms, and I lower my head to taste them, driven by instinct and her encouraging moans.

We undress each other slowly, each new expanse of skin met with kisses and exploration. I worship her body the way I've always worshiped her, with devotion and wonder. The curve of her waist, the softness of her thighs, the sensitive spot behind her knee that makes her giggle and squirm. I memorize her with my hands, my lips, my tongue, mapping a geography I want to spend a lifetime exploring.

There are moments of awkwardness, fumbling with zippers, bumping noses when we kiss, nervous laughter when I nearly roll us off the narrow bench. We're both learning, both desperate to please each other. But the clumsiness only makes it more real, more us.

"Tell me what you like," I murmur against her inner thigh, looking up at her flushed face. "I want to make you feel good."

She guides me with patient affection, her fingers in my hair, her voice a breathy roadmap to her pleasure. I learn the taste of her, the sounds she makes when I find a particularly sensitive spot, the way her thighs tremble when I circle her clit with the pad of my fingers or the tip of my tongue. Her vulnerability is a gift I never expected to receive, one I treasure as she comes apart under my touch, my name a prayer on her lips.

When I finally enter her, the sensation is so intense I have to close my eyes and breathe through it. She's tight and wet around me, her legs wrapped around my waist, her hands clutching my shoulders. I move slowly, carefully, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. My strokes are long, deep, reverent, each one a confession of how much I love her, how long I've wanted this.

"Open your eyes," she whispers, and I do, finding her gaze locked on mine. The intimacy of it, of being seen so completely while joined like this, brings me to the edge faster than I want.

"Tifa, I'm sorry, I can't -" I manage, embarrassment flooding me as release overwhelms me too quickly.

But she just smiles, pulling me down for a kiss. "Don't be sorry," she murmurs, stroking my hair as I collapse against her, spent and shaking. "We have all night."

She's gracious in the face of my inexperience, kissing me until I'm hard again, then guiding me to sit up so she can straddle my lap. This time, she takes control, setting a rhythm that builds slowly, her body moving over mine with increasing confidence. The sight of her above me, hair wild, skin flushed, eyes half-closed in pleasure, is almost too much to bear.

"You're so beautiful," I whisper, hands on her hips, guiding her movements. "Shiva, look at you."

Her kiss-swollen lips part in a smile that turns into a gasp when I shift my angle. "Cloud," she breathes, "right there."

I can feel her getting close, her movements becoming more urgent. I take control again, laying her back down so I can thrust deeper, watching her face as I bring her to the edge. When she comes, clenching around me, crying out my name, I follow immediately, the intensity of our shared pleasure washing over us like a tidal wave.

Afterward, we lie tangled together on the makeshift bed, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on her back. The rain has stopped, stars peeking through breaks in the clouds outside the dome. I've never felt more at peace, more complete, than in this moment.

"Are you still going to take the internship in Rocket Town?" she asks quietly after long stretches of silence has passed and our breathing has evened, her voice small and uncertain.

I tilt her chin up so I can look into her eyes. "No. I'll stay wherever you are."

Her smile is radiant, even in the dim light. "You could get a great internship right here at Shinra headquarters. Or with AVALANCHE - they're doing amazing work on sustainable energy."

"It doesn't matter," I tell her honestly. "As long as I'm with you, I'll be okay."

She nestles closer, pressing a kiss to my chest directly over my heart. It makes me tremble for head to toe. "Remember that promise we made? Under the tree when we were kids?"

I feel my heart stop. Even now, after everything we've shared tonight, I never imagined her to remember that promise.

"If we didn't find anyone else, we'd marry each other," I recite, the memory clear as crystal.

"I think I've known since then," she whispers. "That it would always be you."

The relief that washes over me is insurmountable. To know that something I always thought was just a silly childish thing to her, to know that she carried it too, all this time, tucked away in the same quiet corner of her heart where I kept it, undoes me completely. I pull her closer, overwhelmed by how much I love her. "Me too."

When we fall asleep, tangled together beneath the stars, it feels like coming home to a place I've been searching for my entire life. Like the missing piece of myself has finally been found. Like every wrong turn and misstep has been leading me exactly where I belong.

"Tifa?" I say softly as I hear her breathing even out into sleep.

"Hmm?"

"… I love you too."

---

The whole campus knows our story by now. The engineering major with the secret photography passion. The freshman class representative who turned down Rufus Shinra. The childhood friends whose epic romance was revealed through a controversial photo exhibition. Most of the details are exaggerated, twisted into the kind of campus legend that will probably outlive our actual time at Midgar Academy. But the core truth - that I am desperately, completely in love with Tifa Lockhart, and miraculously, she loves me back - that part is real. So real that sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night just to check that I haven't dreamed it all.

Two weeks after the showcase night that changed everything, we walk across the quad hand in hand, no longer hiding what we are to each other. Heads turn as we pass, whispers following in our wake. Once, this kind of attention would have made me shrink into myself, retreat behind walls of silence and scowls. Now, I straighten my shoulders, my fingers laced firmly with Tifa's, a stupid grin threatening to split my face in half every time she looks at me.

What started as the most humiliating moment of my life has somehow transformed me into a some kind of romantic hero in the campus mythology. The guy who loved so deeply, so completely, that his photography became art. The childhood friend who followed his love across the world just to be near her. It's embarrassing, honestly. But seeing the pride in Tifa's eyes when she introduces me as "my boyfriend, Cloud" makes any amount of awkward attention worth it.

Our old routine resumes with new dimensions. She still comes to wake me in the mornings, but now she slips into bed beside me, peppering my face with kisses until I groan and pull her closer. She still brings me breakfast, but I thank her with lingering kisses that make Zack pretend to gag from the top bunk. She still scolds me for messy notes and missed readings, but now she punctuates her lectures with touches that make it impossible to focus on anything but the promise of later, when we're alone.

Speaking of Zack, it took three days and Tifa's gentle persuasion before I forgave him and Aerith for submitting my photos without permission. Their apology came with the news thatMy Lighthad won the showcase's top award, along with an offer from a small gallery in Sector Seven to display my work.

"We knew you'd never do it yourself," Aerith explained, perched on Zack's lap in our dorm room. "And the world deserves to see how you see it."

"How you see her," Zack added, grinning, echoing Aerith's words to me back in the darkroom that fateful night. "Told you it was art, man."

I couldn't stay mad at them, not when their well-intentioned meddling had given me everything I'd ever wanted. Now the four of us are inseparable, double dating at the campus coffee shop, studying together in the library (though Zack and Aerith's idea of "studying" often involves disappearing between the stacks), meeting up at the rec center where Tifa and I have started training together while Zack and Aerith find mischief of their own.

Rufus Shinra, for his part, seems amused by the whole saga. He nodded to me once across the cafeteria, a gesture that might have been respect, might have been acknowledgment of a game well played. Either way, he's moved on, his attention turned to student government politics and his inevitable ascension to the Shinra Electric executive floor after graduation.

Emilio, however, is a different story. The bruise I left on his face has faded, but the resentment in his eyes whenever he sees Tifa and me together has only intensified. I catch him watching us sometimes, his expression a mix of jealousy and wounded pride. Once, I might have felt threatened by his attention. Now, I feel something closer to pity.

That doesn't stop me from being a little bit of an asshole when I spot him across the quad, though. I'll pull Tifa closer, kiss her temple, her cheek, sometimes capture her lips in a kiss that makes her laugh and push at my chest.

"You're terrible," she whispers against my mouth, fully aware of what I'm doing.

"You love it," I whisper back, and the way her eyes darken tells me I'm right.

Tonight, Tifa sleeps in my bed, her breathing deep and even, one arm flung across my pillow. Zack is out with Aerith, giving us the room to ourselves. I should be sleeping too, but instead I'm at my desk, working on the circuit design for my motorcycle while occasionally glancing over to make sure she's still there, still real.

The moonlight filters through our half-closed blinds, painting silver stripes across her bare shoulder, catching in her dark hair spread across my sheets. She looks peaceful. Beautiful. Mine.

I still can't believe it sometimes.

Above my desk, taped to the wall, is the photo that changed everything. My Light, professionally printed and framed after the showcase. Young Tifa looking up at the stars, adult Tifa bathed in sunlight. Past and present, connected by the constancy of my love for her.

Beside it is a note in her handwriting, penned the morning after our night in the observatory:

If we didn't find anyone else, we'd marry each other someday. But I was always looking for you, even when you were right in front of me. No more maybes, no more somedays. Just us, from now until forever. I love you, Cloud Strife. I always have.

I look from the note to her sleeping form and back again, overwhelmed by how much has changed in such a short time. How close I came to losing everything that matters. How lucky I am to have been given a second chance.

I turn off my desk lamp and slide back into bed beside her. She murmurs something in her sleep, shifting to curl against me, her head finding its place on my chest as if we've been sleeping like this our whole lives. In a way, I suppose, we have been moving toward this moment since we were children, two kids from Nibelheim who followed each other across the world, only to find that home was never a place, but a person.

My person.

My home.

My light.