Keith's POV
There's a quiz next week in Dr. Renee's class—a pop-up, no-hint kind of test she's notorious for. She says it keeps us sharp. I say it keeps me sleepless.
I'd been up for hours trying to make sense of the load she dumped on us—parsing through case studies on spatial planning, flipping back and forth in my Architectural Systems II textbook, scribbling notes in margins like my grade depended on it. Because, well, it does.
But sleep?
Sleep doesn't live in my dorm.
One of my roommates thinks blasting lo-fi beats through his earpiece at full volume is some kind of bedtime ritual. The other one snores like a truck reversing in gravel. The mix? Chaos.
I don't hate them. I just don't want them this close. I've always liked quiet. Solitude. A room where I don't have to brace myself for the next sound, the next person who needs something from me.
My mom says it builds character. "This is how young men learn control," she told me the last time I called to vent.
Right. Mental breakdowns are just self-development in disguise.
I managed to make it to morning without throwing my roommates—or myself—out the window. Just as I was reaching for my hoodie to head to my Introduction to Literary Theory class—yes, the same elective I've ghosted since freshman year—my phone lit up with a call from him.
Dad.
He started with the usual: How's school? How are your grades?
Then the shift. The one I felt in my chest before he even said it:
"You should come home this weekend. We need to talk."
No points for guessing what that means.
I'm not some reckless son trying to abandon his legacy or pretend I don't come from money. But when it feels more like a leash than a legacy, how do they expect me to embrace it?
I don't need the suits, or the empire, or the inheritance that smells more like a trap than a gift. I need air. Space to decide what I want—without guilt choking me every time I choose differently.
Still, I dressed up for class, pulled on my boots, and headed out. The air on campus was cool. I tried to let it calm me.
In class, I took my usual seat at the back and opened my sketchbook. The professor's voice floated through the room—measured and warm. He was one of the only reasons I didn't drop this elective. He made literature feel like art again.
As he lectured, I began sketching—abstract lines, drifting into forms I didn't name. I wasn't fully present. Not with my thoughts still scattered across architectural deadlines and family ultimatums. But the way he talked about stories, how he peeled back the layers of character and conflict… it made something in me want to listen.
The debate that broke out near the end of class?
Unnecessary. Two freshmen puffing up their egos like they were auditioning for valedictorian. Their voices got louder than the message. I tuned them out, focused on the lines taking shape on my page.
When the bell rang, I packed up fast. I still had Urban Spatial Design in less than an hour, and if I didn't get to the other side of campus early, I'd be stuck behind a wall of freshmen who hadn't figured out how not to block hallways with selfies.
I was trying to move fast. And then—
Splash.
Cold water. My top. My chest. My jeans.
It was all so sudden I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
"I freaking hate girls and their Stanley cups," I snapped, wiping at my shirt. I didn't even look up. I didn't wait for her apology—I was too annoyed, too done with the day.
I stormed off, but halfway down the hallway, the guilt started bleeding in.
Because I knew those sneakers.
I knew that gentle, lingering scent—floral, like her. I knew her presence. It was like a silent hum I'd grown to recognize even from across a classroom.
It was her.
I hadn't even looked at her, hadn't given her the courtesy of a glance, and yet my chest was tightening like I'd just missed something… or someone.
Not because of a spilled drink. But because I had finally been that close to the girl who lingered in my thoughts more than I cared to admit—and all I gave her was a bitter one-liner.
I'll make it up to her.
Not with some stiff apology or fake smile.
But with something real. Something quiet. Something that lingers.
Something she'll feel.
And maybe—just maybe—I'll let her see what I really look like… when I'm not drowning in other people's expectations.
(Nina's POV)
The days blurred into one another—class after class, walk after walk—and I still couldn't stop thinking about him.
I tried explaining the situation to Sophie, pouring out what little I had to go on. "He's tall, obviously," I'd said, flopped face-down on her bed, "and his voice? It's the kind that makes you freeze mid-step. Like velvet, but also… cold?"
She gave me a look like Girl, are you okay? And I wasn't. Not really.
"Do you know any guy like that?" I asked, hopeful.
"How am I supposed to know who 'velvet but cold' is?" she laughed, tossing a curl behind her ear. "You're literally describing an audiobook narrator."
She had a point.
The problem was, how do you describe someone whose voice is the only thing you've memorized? Not their face. Not their name. Not their laugh—just the calm, curt rhythm of their words, and the heaviness they left behind like smoke.
I hoped I'd see him again. Maybe it was curiosity. Or maybe something else, soft and ridiculous, was starting to take root.
Being away from home gave me peace… for a while. But in the quiet moments, that worry came crawling back in. About my family. My little sister, who always told me when Mom and Dad were fighting. My older brother, who rarely called unless he needed something. These days, my phone stayed dry—no updates, no check-ins. Maybe they thought they were doing me a favor. Protecting me from stress. I prayed for them every night, even when I didn't know what exactly I was praying against.
Campus life kept moving. Fast.
I went to classes. I showed up. I answered a question once in Literature and felt like I'd just won a Nobel Prize in bravery. I recognized faces—girls with their perfect braids and sharp lip gloss, boys in oversized hoodies laughing too loud—but I wouldn't call any of them friends.
Sophie had other people she hung out with. A photography major who wore socks with heels. A guy named Drew with perfect cheekbones and a terrifying laugh. I didn't mind. I wasn't jealous. Not really.
It's just that sometimes, when she left the room dressed in something cute, saying "I won't be long," I remembered what it felt like to be the friend who always gets left behind. It happened in high school too. I had my own circle… until the group chats went dry and suddenly everyone had other circles. Bigger ones. Cooler ones. I told myself people just moved on. They weren't wrong. I wasn't either.
I saw a flyer taped to a hallway wall: Freshman Welcome Bash – Friday, 7PM. Come dance, eat, and vibe. Something about the messy glitter font made me pause. Maybe I'd go. Maybe I needed to. Just to feel something outside of my head for a while.
This week wasn't all lonely, though. I caught sunsets from the library window that turned the sky into melted sherbet. I got complimented by a random girl on my nail polish. I answered another question in class—Dr. Robin smiled like I'd just recited Shakespeare. Sophie and I ordered fries late one night and watched trashy reality TV until we passed out mid-episode. I laughed hard. For real.
But tonight?
Tonight, I tossed and turned, my sheets kicked to the edge of the bed.
I should've been asleep. I was exhausted. My calves ached from walking across campus twice. My brain was tired from overthinking every interaction I'd had all week.
But there he was again.
Not in person. Just… in thought.
The water incident should've made me mad. I should've been embarrassed, apologizing over and over while someone rolled their eyes at me. But instead, all I remembered was how his shirt clung to him for that split second. The shape of his chest, the way his jaw tensed before he turned away.
I didn't see his face. Not really.
But I felt him.
He didn't even look at me. No eye contact. Just a storm of irritation and quiet anger that made me want to melt into the floor—and then, strangely, made me want to know more.
I don't know what's wrong with me.
Why I keep wondering what his voice would sound like if it weren't annoyed.
Why I imagine his hands, not clenched in frustration, but maybe sketching something quietly, or brushing past me in a crowded hallway on purpose.
I closed my eyes, breath uneven, and tried not to picture him again.
But my heart was already ahead of me.
He had no name. No face.
Just sneakers I recognized. A presence I couldn't explain.
And a voice I wasn't ready to forget.
Maybe I'd see him again. Maybe not.
But if the universe was listening… I wouldn't mind stumbling across him in the hallway again. Even if it meant a second Stanley Cup disaster.
As long as he looks at me next time.
Just once.