Chapter 1:First day,familiar faces
The study room smelled faintly of chalk and old books, the soft buzz of chatter filling the air as students settled in. Anna adjusted her bag on the chair, scanning the room for familiar faces.
Then Amos walked in, his backpack slung casually over one shoulder. Beside him was George—quieter, more observant—looking around like someone still trying to understand where he fit in.
Anna was already seated with Jeffrey, arranging her books, when Jeffrey suddenly straightened up, his face lighting with recognition.
"Anna," he said, pointing toward the entrance, "do you remember Amos from senior high school?"
Anna looked up. Her eyes widened, then she smiled.
"Amos? Yes, of course I remember him," she said, her gaze briefly shifting past him—to George, who lingered near the doorway.
Amos laughed. "Good. I was hoping I hadn't been forgotten already."
George stepped in quietly, almost as if he didn't want to draw attention to himself. But Jeffrey's mischievous grin made that impossible.
Then George spoke—half joking, half unsure.
"So… do you also remember me from senior high school?"
Anna blinked, studying his face for a moment before laughing softly.
"Wait… George? From senior high? No," she said, shaking her head. "I don't think so."
George chuckled, relieved it was taken lightly.
"It's nice meeting you, Anna."
She smiled back at him, and something in that simple moment eased the quiet insecurities he carried—the doubt about whether he belonged here at all.
He took a seat at the far end of the room and opened his notebook, pretending to focus. But his pen hovered uselessly above the page. He heard everything—the laughter, the side comments, the warmth in Anna's voice.
Jeffrey clapped him lightly on the shoulder.
"Come on, don't be shy. Sit with us."
George forced a small laugh and leaned back.
"Yeah… I guess I'll stay a bit."
From that day on, he kept coming back to the study room. Sometimes with books. Sometimes without any excuse at all. Slowly, numbers were exchanged. Conversations stretched beyond the room—messages late at night, laughter during the day, familiarity growing quietly.
One evening, after studying, George walked Anna back. They talked as they moved through the corridor, neither of them noticing how close they were getting to the hostels.
Anna stopped suddenly.
"This is my room," she said, pointing. "Room 121."
George nodded—then froze.
Room 121.
His eyes drifted instinctively down the hallway. Just a few doors away. Too close.
He forced a smile.
"Oh… okay."
As he walked away, his thoughts tangled. He knew those rooms too well. He knew who stayed nearby. And he knew what this closeness could mean.
That night, lying on his bed, George stared at the ceiling.
Should he tell her?
Was it too early?
Or was staying silent the bigger mistake?
Room 119.
Room 121.
So close.
And suddenly, nothing felt simple anymore.