The Autumn of Beginnings
The air tasted like rain and dead leaves that morning — sharp, metallic, alive. The university loomed before me like a cathedral of ambition, its stone towers veiled in climbing ivy and morning mist. The gates creaked open, swallowing me whole.
Mother's voice echoed in my mind as I crossed the courtyard.
"No friends. No distractions. You're here to study, Arisha."
Her words had settled in me like law — unbreakable, binding. I'd memorized them the way other girls memorized love songs.
The campus was impossibly beautiful. Crimson leaves fluttered across the cobblestones, catching in my shoes. Students hurried past, laughing — their coats tailored, their voices bright. They didn't look like they carried grief in their pockets. They didn't know what it meant to start over from the ashes of a life once golden.
We'd come to this city three months ago — mother and I. Once, our home had marble floors and silver cutlery; now, we shared a cramped apartment above a bakery that always smelled faintly of burnt sugar. After Father's death, everything had collapsed like a house of glass. His company, our fortune, even our name. The bankruptcy had dragged us into a silence that felt heavier than poverty.
I'd clawed my way into this place with nothing but my scores and a scholarship. Number one university in the city. English Department. The dream Father once had for me. I carried it now like a burden disguised as pride.
The corridors smelled of old paper and dust. Light filtered through high windows, fractured by the stained glass. I found my seat in the back of the first lecture hall, my notebook open, pen trembling between my fingers.
They noticed me before the class began — the girls in designer sweaters, the boys with perfect hair and careless smirks. I heard it in their laughter, the way they whispered just loud enough.
"She's the scholarship girl."
"Look at her shoes."
"How sad."
I lowered my gaze, heart thudding. I wanted to disappear into my notebook. But shame has its own gravity; it pulls every glance toward you.
After class, I slipped out quickly, hoping to vanish before they found new amusement. But fate has a cruel sense of humor.
It started in the courtyard — three seniors blocking the path to the library. Their laughter cracked through the autumn air like brittle glass.
"Hey, Rossi, right?" one of them called. "You're the charity case?"
My throat went dry. "I—I need to go."
"Go where?" another sneered, stepping closer. "You think studying will change who you are? You're in our world now, sweetheart."
The tallest one plucked the notebook from my hands. Pages fluttered like frightened birds. My heart dropped with them.
"Give it back," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Say please."
The others laughed. The sound echoed against the courtyard walls, cruel and endless.
And then — silence.
It fell so suddenly that even the wind seemed to stop. The group turned.
He was standing a few feet away, one hand in his pocket, the other adjusting the cuff of his black shirt. His presence bent the space around him — confident, unbothered, commanding.
Dark hair, slightly tousled. High cheekbones, sharp jawline, eyes like tempered steel. He looked older than the others, though maybe it was just the weight in his expression — that dangerous mix of charm and authority.
"Is this how you welcome newcomers here?" his voice cut through the courtyard, smooth and low.
The senior with my notebook tried to smile. "We were just—"
"Leave."
One word. Cold. Absolute. They obeyed.
He picked up my notebook from the ground, brushed a leaf off the cover, and handed it to me. For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
"You should be careful," he said. "Not everyone here is as… civilized."
I managed a nod, clutching the notebook like a shield. "Thank you."
He smiled then — or something close to it. A dangerous curve of the lips that didn't reach his eyes.
"A thank you?" he drawled. "That's all? I save you, and not even a kiss?"
My eyes widened. He was teasing, but there was something serious in the way he looked at me — testing, curious, amused.
I stared at him for a long second, pulse racing, words stuck somewhere between my throat and pride. Then I turned away without a sound.
His low chuckle followed me as I walked off, my heartbeat too loud to think.
"Interesting," I heard him murmur behind me.
That night, I replayed it over and over — the way his gaze had felt, like standing too close to fire. I didn't even know his name. But something told me I would.
Soon.
The Noise Between Us
Lunch hour was chaos. The cafeteria thrummed with laughter, the scrape of chairs, the sharp scent of coffee and overcooked pasta. Conversations tangled in the air — gossip, jokes, the hum of belonging.
And there I was, the only quiet thing in a room full of noise.
I sat by the window, a book open in front of me. The sunlight slanted through the glass, painting the table in gold and shadow. My headphones were on, but no music played. They were armor — the kind that said don't talk to me.
My sweater sleeves hung past my wrists, my jeans were loose, comfortable. My hair was tied in a careless bun, a pencil stuck through it. I looked like someone trying too hard not to be seen. Maybe I was.
I turned a page I hadn't read. The words blurred; I wasn't really there. I was in the quiet of my head — a safer place than any crowd.
Then the air shifted.
It wasn't dramatic, not like in movies. Just that subtle awareness — the kind that prickles the back of your neck when someone's watching you.
"You always read alone, or is this seat cursed?"
I looked up.
Adrian Madden.
He stood with a tray in one hand, that same effortless smirk carved across his face. The cafeteria light caught in his dark hair, setting it aglow in places. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, the kind of careless perfection people like him seemed to be born with.
I didn't answer. Just stared for a heartbeat too long, then looked back at my book.
"Ah," he said, setting the tray down anyway. "So, cursed seat it is."
He sat opposite me without asking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The table between us felt too small.
I kept my eyes on the page. "Aren't you supposed to be with your fans?"
"Fans?" He laughed softly. "You make me sound like a pop star."
"You act like one."
"Only when I have an audience worth performing for."
I didn't rise to the bait. I underlined a word on the page — not because I needed to, but because it gave my hands something to do.
"So, scholarship girl reads during lunch," he said. "Is this a daily ritual, or are you avoiding people?"
"Maybe both."
He grinned. "You don't like talking much, do you?"
"You talk enough for both of us."
That made him laugh — a low, warm sound that somehow filled the space between us. A few heads turned, curious. The sight of Adrian Madden sitting with the quiet girl must've been a novelty.
"You're different," he said, studying me like a puzzle. "Most girls here would kill to sit where you're sitting."
"Then maybe you should let them."
"And miss out on this charming conversation? Never."
His tone was teasing, but there was something else underneath — a faint curiosity, as if he couldn't decide whether I intrigued or infuriated him.
I closed my book. "What do you want, Adrian?"
"You know my name."
"Everyone does."
"But you say it differently."
I frowned. "You're imagining things."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping low. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just used to people wanting something from me. You don't."
That threw me off balance. I looked away, pretending to adjust my headphone wire. "You think too much."
"I do. Especially about you."
"You met me yesterday."
"That's enough time to start thinking."
The audacity of him.
I felt a flicker of amusement despite myself — one I quickly buried. He seemed to notice anyway; his grin widened.
"There it is," he murmured. "You almost smiled. I was starting to think you didn't know how."
I rolled my eyes. "You should get back to your group."
"I told them I had a meeting."
"With who?"
"You, apparently."
He took a sip of his coffee as if this were perfectly reasonable.
I exhaled through my nose, fighting the ghost of a smile. "You're impossible."
"And yet, you're still talking to me."
He wasn't wrong. I hated that he wasn't wrong.
I gathered my things, slipping my book into my bag. He watched, one eyebrow raised.
"Running away already?"
"Some of us have classes to attend."
"Which one?"
"Literary Criticism."
"I'll walk you."
"No need."
"I insist."
And he did — following me through the courtyard, down the corridor lined with notice boards and faded posters. His footsteps matched mine perfectly, like he'd done this before.
"You know," he said lightly, "you could make this easier by just admitting you like me."
I stopped walking. "I don't."
He stepped closer — not enough to touch, but close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him. His cologne was faint — clean, sharp, like rain on metal.
"You're sure?" he asked.
I met his gaze. "Completely."
He smiled again, that infuriatingly calm, confident smile. "Good. I like a challenge."
Then he walked away — just turned and left me standing there, heart hammering, confusion crawling up my throat like smoke.
That night, I sat by my dorm window, the city lights flickering through the rain-streaked glass. I told myself he was just another arrogant boy with too much charm and not enough sincerity.
But somewhere deep down, I knew better.
Adrian Madden wasn't like the others. He carried a storm behind those eyes — something dark, something broken.
And I hated that I wanted to know what it was.
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