The campus looked exactly the way Iris Chen expected it to look—
busy, loud, and already full of people who seemed to know where they belonged.
She stood at the edge of the main walkway, backpack straps pulled tightly over her shoulders, watching groups of students pass by. Laughter echoed between buildings. Someone waved enthusiastically at a friend across the lawn. Someone else complained about an early lecture.
No one noticed her standing still.
That was fine.
That was always fine.
Iris adjusted the schedule folded neatly in her hand and took a quiet breath before stepping forward. She had learned, over the years, how to move through crowded spaces without drawing attention—head slightly lowered, steps measured, body angled just enough to avoid collision. It wasn't shyness, not exactly. It was habit. A way of existing without causing inconvenience.
This was her first day as a transfer student.
---
The classroom was already half full when she arrived. Iris chose a seat near the back, close enough to hear but far enough to remain invisible. She placed her notebook carefully on the desk, aligning it with the edge, then sat with her hands folded in her lap.
Around her, conversations overlapped.
"Did you finish the assignment?"
"I heard the professor is really strict."
"Wait, that exam got moved, right?"
She listened without joining in, absorbing details she didn't need, just to avoid thinking about herself.
When the professor entered, the room settled. Names were called during attendance. Iris felt a small, familiar tension build in her chest as she waited.
"Chen, Iris."
"Yes," she answered quickly, perhaps too quickly, lifting her hand halfway before realizing she didn't need to.
The professor nodded and moved on.
That was it.
No curious glances. No questions.
Relief washed over her, followed by something else—lighter, quieter, almost like disappointment. She ignored it.
---
The lecture passed without incident. Iris took notes diligently, her handwriting neat and controlled. She didn't look around much, but she was aware of people in the room the way one is aware of background noise—present, but distant.
Still, at some point, she noticed him.
It wasn't anything obvious. He didn't speak out of turn or laugh loudly or attract attention in any way. He sat a few rows ahead, near the aisle, posture relaxed but attentive. When the professor asked a question, he answered calmly, without showing off. When others whispered, he didn't join in.
There was something unassuming about him.
Iris told herself that was the reason her eyes lingered for half a second too long.
She looked back down at her notes.
---
After class, she waited.
It was another habit of hers—to let the room empty first, to avoid the awkwardness of packing up alongside strangers. She pretended to reread her notes while chairs scraped against the floor and footsteps faded toward the door.
When she finally stood, the hallway outside was quieter.
The sky, however, had changed.
Grey clouds pressed low, heavy and threatening. By the time Iris reached the building entrance, rain had already begun to fall—soft at first, then suddenly harder, as if the sky had made up its mind.
She stopped just inside the doorway.
Of course.
She searched her bag anyway, knowing what she would find. No umbrella. She rarely needed one. Usually, she checked the weather. Usually, she planned ahead.
Today, she hadn't.
Outside, students rushed past, hoods pulled up, umbrellas opening like dark flowers. Within minutes, the steps were nearly empty.
Iris remained where she was, fingers tightening around her bag strap.
She could wait.
She was good at waiting.
---
Time passed slowly. The rain didn't lighten.
She considered her options—running for it, calling for a ride, taking a longer route under covered walkways. None of them felt ideal. She sighed softly, more at herself than at the situation.
Then, someone stopped beside her.
Not abruptly. Not close enough to invade her space. Just… there.
She sensed him before she looked.
"You can take this."
The voice was calm, low, without urgency.
Iris turned.
It was the same boy from the classroom.
He was holding out a jacket—dark, dry, clearly his. Raindrops dotted his hair, as if he had already stepped outside once and come back.
Her first instinct was to refuse.
"Oh, I—" She hesitated. "It's okay. I can wait."
He glanced at the rain, then back at her.
"It doesn't look like it's planning to stop," he said, almost apologetically. "I live close."
The way he said it made it sound less like an explanation and more like reassurance. No pressure. No expectation.
Iris stared at the jacket for a moment too long.
"Thank you," she said finally, her voice quieter than she intended. "I'll… I'll return it."
He nodded, as if that was all he needed to hear.
---
They walked out together, but not side by side—not exactly. He held the jacket over her shoulders, making sure it covered her properly before letting go. Then he stepped back, giving her space.
Rain fell steadily around them.
They didn't talk much. A few simple exchanges—about classes, about directions. Nothing personal. Nothing that required effort.
Yet Iris felt acutely aware of him matching her pace, slowing when she slowed, stopping when she stopped to avoid a puddle.
At the corner where their paths separated, she turned toward him.
"Um… thank you. Again."
"You're welcome."
He smiled—not wide, not practiced. Just enough.
"See you around," he added.
She nodded, unsure what else to say, and walked away before the moment could stretch too long.
---
Later that night, sitting on her bed with the jacket folded neatly beside her, Iris realized something unsettling.
She hadn't asked for his name.
And he hadn't asked for hers.
Yet, somehow, she felt certain this wasn't the last time their paths would cross.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
And for the first time since arriving on campus, Iris wondered—
not nervously, but quietly—
whether being noticed might not be such a frightening thing after all.