Morning came softly, filtered through clouds that hadn't fully let go of the rain. The city looked washed clean, as if the night had pressed a reset button. Streets gleamed faintly, trees shook loose the last drops from their leaves, and the air smelled like damp concrete and new beginnings.
Ava Lin woke before her alarm.
She lay still for a moment, listening. The radiator clicked faintly. Somewhere outside, a bus sighed to a stop. The city was already awake, and that familiar pressure settled into her chest—the quiet urgency of another day she wasn't entirely sure she was ready for.
She pushed herself up and reached for her sketchbook on the bedside table.
The page she'd left open last night was still blank.
She stared at it, her mind drifting backward—to rain, to neon reflections, to the way a stranger's name had sounded when she'd said it out loud.
Liam.
She frowned slightly and shook her head, brushing her hair out of her face. Get a grip, she told herself. He was just someone she'd bumped into. Someone kind. Someone whose eyes had held her attention a little longer than necessary.
That didn't mean anything.
Still, she picked up her pencil.
Without planning to, she began to draw.
Lines formed instinctively: a streetlight, a wet sidewalk, a figure standing beneath the glow. She didn't draw his face—only the suggestion of a posture, hands in pockets, shoulders slightly hunched as if he were bracing himself against more than just the cold.
When she realized what she was doing, Ava stopped.
Her heart beat a little faster.
She closed the sketchbook and swung her legs off the bed.
Campus was already buzzing by the time she arrived. Students clustered near coffee carts, umbrellas folded under arms, voices overlapping in excited, anxious bursts. Ava moved through them quietly, headphones in but no music playing. She liked the illusion of distance it gave her.
Architecture studio occupied the top floor of one of the older buildings, all tall windows and concrete floors. Light spilled in generously, illuminating drafting tables cluttered with rulers, models, and half-finished dreams.
"Ava!"
She turned to see Maya waving her over, already seated at their usual table. Maya was everything Ava wasn't—loud, expressive, unafraid of taking up space. Her hair was tied up messily, ink smudged on her fingers like proof she'd been working before dawn.
"You look like you actually slept," Maya said. "Who are you, and what have you done with my friend?"
Ava smiled faintly. "I slept."
"Liar." Maya leaned closer. "Something happened."
Ava opened her bag, carefully avoiding eye contact. "Nothing happened."
Maya grinned. "That's what people say when something definitely happened."
Before Ava could respond, the professor entered, and the room shifted into focused silence. Blueprints were unrolled, critiques began, and Ava lost herself in the rhythm of lines and measurements. She liked design because it made sense—because every choice had a reason, every structure a purpose.
Feelings weren't like that.
Still, as she worked, her thoughts drifted. She found herself imagining rain sliding down glass facades, the way light fractured through water. Without thinking, she adjusted her design, softening sharp angles, opening space where there hadn't been any before.
When the critique ended, Maya glanced at Ava's work and raised an eyebrow. "This feels… different."
Ava looked down. "Different how?"
"Gentler," Maya said. "Like you let the building breathe."
Ava didn't answer.
After class, she walked through campus slowly, letting the noise wash over her. Her phone buzzed with messages from her mother—reminders about internships, deadlines, expectations. Ava read them without responding, slipping the phone back into her pocket.
She stopped at a crosswalk.
The street was familiar.
Too familiar.
Her breath caught as she realized she was standing beneath the same streetlight as last night. In daylight, it looked ordinary—just metal and glass, no magic at all. But the memory lingered, vivid and stubborn.
She hugged her sketchbook closer.
Across the street, a café sign glowed faintly even in the morning light.
No, she told herself. Don't.
She crossed anyway.
Inside, the café was warm and smelled like coffee and baked sugar. It was quieter than she expected, late-morning lull settling in. She scanned the room instinctively, heart lifting and sinking all at once when she didn't see him.
Of course he wasn't there.
She ordered a latte she didn't really want and sat near the window, watching the city move. As she stirred her drink, she noticed a small stack of notebooks on the counter near the register. One of them was open, pages filled with handwriting.
Poetry.
She looked away, suddenly aware of her own sketchbook resting beside her cup.
Strangers, she thought. We leave pieces of ourselves everywhere.
The bell above the door chimed.
Ava looked up.
Liam stepped inside, rain jacket slung over his arm, hair still damp. He froze when he saw her, surprise flickering across his face before something softer took its place.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then he smiled.
"Hey," he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Ava felt her pulse quicken. "Hi."
He hesitated, then gestured toward the counter. "You—uh—coffee?"
She nodded. "I was just about to leave."
They both knew it wasn't true.
He ordered, stealing glances in her direction, and when he joined her at the window, the space between them felt charged but comfortable, like a question waiting to be answered.
"Did you make it home okay?" he asked.
"Yes. Did you?"
"Yeah."
Silence settled—not heavy, not awkward. Just real.
Outside, the city continued on, unaware that two strangers were slowly becoming something else.
Ava wrapped her hands around her cup, warmth seeping into her palms.
She had a feeling—quiet but certain—that this city had more to say to them yet.
And this time, she was listening.