Everything about us was temporary. We would talk a little, watch a little and then go to bed. In the morning, I would zip up my coat while he asked, “Heading out?”

I would nod and say, “Thanks for the toast.”

There was a rhythm to it. Monday night, pack my bag. Tuesday morning, walk home.

By asking for more, I knew I was breaking the rules. Dating apps allow you to set obvious parameters: age range, distance radius and so on. But there are also unspoken rules: a deadline for the relationship (in our case, graduation); what feelings shouldn’t be expressed, from affection (“Thinking of you!”) to criticism (“It bothers me when you do x”); and boundaries on what shouldn’t be shared about your personal lives (family details, past loves). And you can regulate how much you want to integrate the person into other spheres of your life (not introducing each other to friends).

For a month, I was totally in control. Then one morning, as I returned to my apartment, my hand paused on the doorknob. Instead of considering the warm shower I was about to take, or even dreading the slog of classes that awaited me, I was still thinking about Michael.

I started daydreaming about how the moonlight trickled in while he played me his jazz records, how he chuckled and buried his face in his hands after I explained my odd internships, and how he held up a picture of his family and described each of his brothers. Our kiss was interrupted when he started smiling and then I started smiling.

I was an idiot. Of course I liked him. It was as if I had been carrying an armful of bricks for the past few weeks but only just admitted, “Wow, this is a little heavy.”