The campus gates open like a slow exhale, and students pour through in a colorful, chaotic spill—backpacks swinging, coffee cups steaming, voices overlapping in that early-morning rush that feels half dream, half stampede. Selene slips in among them, small and quiet, her sneakers scuffing the path like she's trying not to leave footprints.
The crowd parts and rejoins around her the way water moves around a pebble. She's used to it.
Then she spots her.
Catherine—*Cathy*—leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, arms crossed, one hip cocked, looking like she stepped out of a science-department recruitment poster. Tall, dark curls pulled into a high ponytail, white lab coat already slung over her shoulders even though it's barely nine. Beauty and brains in equal, infuriating measure. She lights up when she sees Selene, waving like they haven't seen each other in years instead of yesterday.
Selene jogs the last few steps, tote bouncing against her thigh.
"So," Cathy starts before Selene even stops moving, "I found someone who's *definitely* your type."
Selene's internal narrator kicks in immediately.
*There we go again. This is Cathy, my annoying matchmaker and bestie-forever. The girl who thinks love is just chemistry with better lighting. And don't be biased—that would be fucking messed up. I know the people you've been seeing around me are pretty. What if they're pretty? What then? Does that make me less of a glitch in the universe?*
Cathy's still talking, words tumbling out in that bright, unstoppable way of hers.
"…and he's in my biochem lab group, super quiet but not, like, *awkward* quiet, more like thoughtful quiet, you know? The kind where he actually listens when people talk instead of just waiting for his turn. And he draws these little diagrams in the margins of his notes—*diagrams*, Selene, not doodles. I showed him that charcoal portrait you did of the old oak tree last semester and he legit stared at it for thirty seconds without blinking. Thirty seconds! That's, like, forever in guy time."
Selene blinks back into focus. Cathy is laughing now, eyes sparkling, clearly delighted with her own matchmaking genius.
"So you'll come to the faculty building at lunch, right?" Cathy presses. "I already told them the usual line: 'She won't touch anything important, she's just a cross-department observer for anatomy reference.' Which is technically true. Ish. And please don't mess anything up—I've told you what he's like. Gentle. Smart. Doesn't do small talk but *will* talk your ear off about protein folding if you let him. You'll like him. I swear."
Selene's brain catches up in pieces.
"Wait—so what you were saying was *important*?"
Cathy laughs harder, head tipping back. "Earth to Selene, yes, it was important! You zoned out again."
Selene rubs the back of her neck, cheeks warming. "Okay, okay. I'll behave. But I'll come by when I'm done with digital art class. Okay? Love you. Bye."
She's already turning, already moving before Cathy can launch another sales pitch.
"Love you too, weirdo!" Cathy calls after her. "Don't chicken out!"
Selene doesn't look back.
She weaves through the wave of students—taller bodies, louder voices, longer strides. At five feet four she disappears easily; it's almost convenient. No one bumps into her because no one really sees her coming. She's a ghost in motion, sketchbook armor, paint-stained sleeves, heart thudding too loud in her ears.
*Maybe it's the height. Maybe it's the way I keep my eyes on the ground. Maybe it's because if I look up too long someone might look back.*
The art faculty building rises ahead, all brutalist concrete softened by ivy and graffiti tags that get painted over every spring. She climbs the steps two at a time, pushes through the heavy glass doors.
Inside it smells like turpentine, warm toner from the big printers, and the faint sweet rot of fruit left too long in someone's still-life setup.
Her digital art class is in twenty minutes.
But somewhere between the gates and here, a tiny, reckless hope has lodged itself under her ribs.
Not hope that he'll like her.
Not even hope that she'll like him.
Just… hope that maybe, for once, when someone looks at her, she won't immediately want to turn her back to the canvas and become the one who's hard to see.
She slips into the hallway, shoulders brushing posters for upcoming exhibitions.
Breathes in.
And keeps walking.