My name is Beauty.
When I gained admission into the university, it felt like stepping into a world that moved faster than I was ready for. Everything was new—new faces, new voices, unfamiliar buildings, crowded hallways, and a rhythm of life I was only beginning to understand. I was excited, yes, but also afraid. I had always been quiet, reserved, someone who preferred the safety of her own thoughts.
And then there was Leonard.
At first, he was nothing special. Just another classmate. Another face in the lecture hall. We shared the same courses, sat through the same long lectures, and squeezed past each other in the same noisy corridors. Whenever our eyes met, it was always the same routine—a quick glance, a shy smile, a soft "hi" or "hello," and then we both looked away, pretending there was nothing more.
And maybe, at first, there wasn't.
Weeks passed like that. The first month. Then the second. Then the third. Nothing changed, yet somehow, something lingered. I would notice him before I noticed anyone else. His laughter carried differently. His presence felt… steady. Familiar. Safe, even when I didn't know him.
Then came the physics test.
That morning, I walked into the exam hall with my heart racing, my palms sweaty. Physics had never been my strength. As I searched for my seat, I noticed Leonard sitting beside an empty chair. He looked up, our eyes met, and for the first time, he smiled fully—not the polite kind, but the kind that lingered.
"Looks like you're sitting here," he said lightly.
I nodded, suddenly too aware of my own breathing. During the exam, we barely spoke. Still, something shifted. I could feel his presence beside me, steady and calm, while my thoughts raced.
After the exam, I gathered the little courage I had and stopped him outside the hall.
"Um… Leonard?"
He turned, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"
"Can you… help me with some of the questions? I got confused."
He laughed softly, tilting his head. "Help you?"
"Yes."
"Hmm," he said, pretending to think. "What do I get in return?"
I blinked. "What?"
"I'm joking," he said, smiling. "But maybe… you owe me something."
I rolled my eyes, my lips betraying me with a smile. "You're annoying."
"And you still want my help," he replied.
Later that day, he sent me the answers. But it wasn't really about physics anymore. It was about the spark that flickered between us—unexpected and quiet, yet impossible to ignore.
From that day, Leonard began to stretch into my life.
He started with messages. Simple ones. Ordinary ones.
"Where are you?"
"Are you home?"
"Have you eaten?"
"What are you doing?"
At first, they caught me off guard. No one had ever asked me those things so consistently. I told myself not to read too much into it, but slowly, I found myself waiting. Waiting for my phone to light up. Waiting for his name.
And when it did, I smiled.
I told Leonard something early on—something I had always been insecure about.
"I'm shy," I said one evening during one of our long chats. "And… kind of naive."
I expected him to pull away. Instead, he laughed softly.
"Then we'll start from there," he said. "I'll help you loosen up. Help you get closer to people."
"What if I don't change?" I asked quietly.
"Then I'll still be here," he replied.
That was the moment I felt seen.
The first time Leonard asked me to take a walk with him around campus, I almost said no. My shyness screamed for me to stay inside, to hide behind excuses. But something in me wanted to try.
So I went.
We walked slowly, side by side. At first, I didn't know what to say. But Leonard didn't rush me. He talked when I was quiet. He listened when I spoke. Soon, the silence felt comfortable. Safe.
Those walks became our ritual. Evenings filled with laughter, soft conversations, shared glances. Sometimes our shoulders brushed, and my heart would race. Sometimes his hand hovered close to mine, never touching, yet close enough to make me aware of it.
Then came the calls.
At night, when the campus grew quiet, Leonard would call. Sometimes we talked about our day. Sometimes we talked about nothing. Sometimes we just stayed on the line, breathing into the silence.
"You're beautiful," he would say suddenly.
I would laugh nervously. "Stop."
"I'm serious," he'd reply. "I want you to believe it."
Slowly, I did.
Exam season came, and Leonard found his way to me every time. He sat close during papers, waited for me afterward, walked me back as evening fell. His presence became part of my routine—so natural that I didn't notice when I started needing it.
One night, after a long walk, we stopped under a quiet campus light. The air felt heavy, charged with something unspoken. He looked at me, really looked at me.
"Beauty," he said softly.
"Yes?"
"I like you."
My heart pounded. I looked down, then back up.
"I like you too."
He stepped closer—not touching, just close enough that I could feel his warmth. His hand brushed mine, hesitant, asking permission. When I didn't pull away, he gently intertwined our fingers.
That night, when he asked me to be his girlfriend, my heart was still shy, still unsure, still naive. But it knew the answer.
So I said yes.
And that was the moment our love story truly began.