College was supposed to be all about textbooks, lectures, and exams. But sometimes, life writes a syllabus you never saw coming.
The autumn sun poured gold over campus walkways, catching in the trees like flames. I breathed it all in — the buzz of new faces, the hum of distant lectures, the quiet pulse of possibility. It should have felt like a fresh start. Maybe it was. But the nerves twisting in my chest had other plans.
Then — bam — the universe decided to make a dramatic entrance for me. My textbooks slipped from my grip, scattering across the pavement like fallen leaves.
"Oh, geez, I'm so sorry!" a voice called out.
I looked up.
Tall. Messy curls. Hazel eyes that held both surprise and steady calm. Something about him — the way he occupied the space like he belonged — made my words catch in my throat.
For a moment, the noise of the quad dimmed. It was just me. And him. And a quiet tension humming between us.
"No worries," I managed, forcing a smile. "Clumsy me."
We knelt to collect the books, our hands brushing for a split second — a note held too long on a violin string. My heart fluttered or maybe even sprinted. I couldn't tell.
Then he laughed — warm and genuine, the kind of laugh you wouldn't expect from someone who looked like he belonged in a boardroom. It didn't match my assumptions, and that was… thrilling.
We fell into easy conversation — music, art, the chaos of business class schedules. I found myself answering without hesitation, my usual mental checklist — Is this too much? Too weird? Too vulnerable? — slipping away.
And then the strangest thing happened: we kept running into each other. Same lecture halls, same campus paths. I told myself it was coincidence, but it felt less like chance every time.
There was something magnetic about him. Not just his fierce ambition — though that was impressive — but the way his eyes sparkled when he spoke about art. Like that was the piece of himself he hid from the world. Maybe I wasn't the only one living behind a mask of expectations.
The more we talked, the more I found myself imagining moments that hadn't happened yet — what his voice would sound like if he ever heard me sing, if he'd understand the ache music stirred inside me, the way it made business lectures feel like noise.
As the day faded and we said goodbye, I felt it again — a flutter, a shift.
Part of me wanted to believe it meant something. That maybe the universe had dropped something unexpected in my lap.
But then I remembered: the universe didn't answer to dreams. Not in my family. Not when dreams didn't come with paychecks and business plans.
Still… I couldn't stop smiling.
Our paths had crossed, and somehow, I knew they weren't done yet.