(AN: First I want to say thank you to those who have taken the time to read my story.
I will be releasing 10 chapters today and then 10 again next week to make up for the week of Christmas and New Years I will be preoccupied.
Ok thanks again more at the end but for now lets get to it. Tenth of 10) (DONE and of course I found a typo in my closing at the last publish "sigh" welp ill fix for the future and just wait for the people who point it out in the comments.)
Age 13
The drive back from Medford was quiet. Dad isn't the kind of man who fills silence unless there's something practical to say, and I've never been the kind of son who needs noise to feel present. The highway stretched flat and gray, winter light bouncing off the hood in a dull rhythm that matched the hum of the tires. We stopped once for gas, once for coffee. He asked if I had everything. I said yes. That was enough.
The miles unspooled without ceremony, faded billboards, skeletal trees, an occasional hawk tracing lazy circles above the fields. Every so often Dad drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, an unconscious metronome that told me more than words would have. He wasn't impatient, just thinking. We both were.
When we reached Austin, he pulled to the curb in front of my dorm. No long goodbyes, just the dull click of the parking brake and the thump of the trunk opening. He helped me lift out the duffel and the box of books, then stood there a moment with his hands in his jacket pockets.
"Keep your head down, stay ahead," he said.
"I will."
He nodded once, got back in the car, and drove off. The red taillights slid around the corner and vanished, leaving exhaust ghosts curling in the cold air.
For a long moment I just stood there, watching my breath drift. The campus smelled faintly of asphalt and pine needles, that strange Texas mix of winter that isn't quite cold. The quiet felt heavier than I expected, too still after the steady hum of the road. I slung the duffel over my shoulder and started toward the building.
Inside, the dorm smelled exactly as it had in December, detergent, paper, and old carpet trying to remember its youth. Half the doors were still closed; most students hadn't returned yet. My shoes echoed in the hallway. When I unlocked my room, the air felt stale, the heater's dry hum cutting through the silence. The blinds were half-open, leaving stripes of pale sunlight across the floor.
I dropped my bag, set the box on the desk, and stood there. The space looked smaller than I remembered, maybe it was the absence of clutter, the kind of disorder that makes a place feel lived in. Over break I'd gotten used to larger rooms and full conversations: Mom's voice in the kitchen, Georgie's football commentary, Sheldon lecturing about thermodynamics at breakfast. Here, everything was measured and precise. I preferred it that way, even if I didn't like admitting it.
Unpacking didn't take long: two drawers for clothes, one shelf for books, notebooks stacked in a perfect grid. I lined my pens on the desk by color, retaped the schedule to the wall, and rewound the clock that had stopped while I was gone. The hands ticked back to life, a quiet metronome in the empty room. Piece by piece, routine reassembled until the air felt like mine again.
On the nightstand sat the small black pi-shaped keychain Paige had given me before break. I turned it over once between my fingers before setting it beside my watch. A strange comfort, something that belonged to the world I'd chosen, not the one I'd left.
The heater clicked off. In the brief silence that followed I could almost hear the echoes of home: Missy humming in the hallway, Meemaw's laughter through the receiver when she called Christmas morning, Dad telling Sheldon to give the science a rest. They were noises that had always annoyed me in real time but now felt like punctuation marks in a language I suddenly missed.
I sat on the bed and let the quiet stretch. My brain, unoccupied, started filling in data, tomorrow's schedule, class locations, probability models for coursework pacing. It wasn't anxiety; it was calibration. The rhythm of order returning.
By late afternoon, sunlight turned amber through the blinds. My body ached from the drive, so I switched to what came next: motion. I changed into a plain gray T-shirt and started the routine I'd missed over the holidays, push-ups, sit-ups, stretches against the wall. Nothing dramatic, just deliberate motion to remind my muscles they existed for a reason other than sitting. Ten minutes in, my heartbeat steadied into a pace I recognized. Thought and motion synced easily when there was nothing else to interrupt them.
I finished with slow breathing, standing still long enough to feel the pulse fade from my hands. The floor was cool under bare feet. I liked that contrast, heat leaving, calm settling. Control maintained. Always that word: control.
The shower steamed the small room. I wiped the mirror with a towel; my reflection looked the same, same short hair, same neutral expression, same eyes that always seemed a little older than they should. The kind of face that doesn't surprise itself anymore. I turned off the light and stepped back into the quiet.
A knock came just as I finished unpacking. Ben, our RA, leaned in the doorway, clipboard tucked under one arm. His Santa hat was gone, replaced by his usual grin of half-tired authority.
"Back early again, Cooper. Not surprised."
"Efficiency," I said.
"Uh-huh. You and that word." He peered into the tidy room. "Paige checked in an hour ago. Said to tell you she beat you back."
"I'll have to adjust the data set," I said, deadpan.
He laughed. "Just don't start a new study group before the rest of us get back, all right? Some of us like pretending we're average."
"I'll note the variable," I said.
Ben shook his head, amused, and headed down the hall. "Welcome home, genius."
When the door shut, the silence returned, but lighter this time, less empty, more waiting.
I pulled out the new syllabi, one for Advanced Calculus, one for Data Structures. Different departments, same expectation. I scanned through the assignments, reading fast, marking dates in the margins. The professors' names were new, but the pattern wasn't. Every line was a system to learn, a rhythm to master. The familiarity steadied me.
Outside, voices began to collect in the hallways: the thud of luggage, laughter, someone greeting an old roommate. The building was waking up. I sat at my desk, window cracked just enough to let in the chill, and watched the campus shift from stillness to movement.
By evening, the lamps along the courtyard glowed gold against the rising blue. A few students dragged suitcases across the walkway, others balanced pizza boxes and shouted greetings through open windows. I caught sight of Paige crossing the courtyard, her scarf fluttering behind her, a paper cup in one hand. She didn't see me; she was laughing at something the girl beside her said. The sound carried up faintly and then faded. The world was rebuilding itself one voice at a time.
I turned back to my desk and found that the sight had left a faint ache in the quiet. Not bad, just noticeable. Evidence of connection, maybe. Or proof that control wasn't the same thing as contentment.
I poured a cup of water from the sink and sat down again, letting the hum of the heater fill the room. I flipped through my notebook until I found an empty page and wrote a single line at the top.
Order before movement.
It wasn't philosophy, just instruction, a reminder that things worked best when built in silence first. But this time I added a second line beneath it.
Movement before understanding.
Maybe that's what growing up was, learning when to act before the equation balanced.
I set the pen down, checked my alarm clock, and set it five minutes early. The heater clicked on again, breaking the stillness. I turned off the desk lamp, the room shrinking to soft shadows. Lying back, I listened to the low hum through the wall and the faint sound of footsteps somewhere down the corridor. Someone laughed; a door closed; the rhythm of life resumed.
Tomorrow would bring lectures, new professors, rows of unfamiliar faces, and Paige's quiet grin when she inevitably arrived early for once. The equations would wait. The world would keep moving. And I'd be ready.
The last thing I heard before sleep was the clock ticking, steady, mechanical, perfect.
Thanks for reading, feel free to write a comment, leave a review, and Power Stones are always appreciated.
I have two other stories I am currently working on and I want to assure that it will not effect this story I have every thing planed out story wise.
The first story is called Naruto: Crimson Reaper
The story of a soul reincarnated into the naruto universe half Uzamaki half Chinoike
The second story has a work in progress name but it is a story a soul reincarnated as Cain (Bible) in the world of TVD/Originals.