The morning air brushed Aria’s cheeks as she crossed the quiet street, the soft spill of September light stretching over slate-gray rooftops. Pavements glistened from last night’s rain, as if the city had been washed out to dry. The narrow streets were just beginning to stir. Bicycles whispered by. Reflections danced softly in the canal water, rippling with the occasional glide of a boat.

It was the kind of morning that felt like a page half-written—lean, open, waiting.

Aria adjusted the strap of her tote, boots tapping a slow rhythm on the walkway. Even now, in her third year, these days always arrived with that gentle ache of beginning. Not nerves. Not excitement. Something quieter. Steadier. Like the thrum of something unfinished.

The university came into view, ivy trailing its aged stone. In the courtyard, the crowd was starting to swell—new faces trailing in like migrating birds, eyes wide, clutching orientation packets and coffee cups too big for their hands. The familiar rhythm rose around her: rolling suitcase wheels, overlapping introductions, the occasional frantic call.

Her name badge swung slightly as she walked through the yard towards the lecture hall, the words ‘Student Volunteer: Aria’ catching briefly in the morning light. She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder, the frayed strap tugging at the soft sleeve of her worn, oversized flannel, the one she always reached for when September hovered between summer and something colder. Her glasses slid halfway down her nose—a familiar inconvenience, and she nudged them back up with a finger, the motion practiced, like breath.

As she neared the campus café, the scent met her—a warm mix of dark roast, vanilla, and something sweet she couldn’t quite name. It curled around her like an invitation, momentarily louder than the chatter of students or the squeak of suitcase wheels over cobblestone. Her stomach gave a small, hopeful growl, a hushed reminder that she’d skipped breakfast. She shifted her grip on the clipboard tucked under one arm; check-in sheets slightly crinkled at the edges, already softened from a morning’s use, and took a step towards the promise of caffeine and comfort—

Her phone buzzed sharply against her palm.

Maya: Bringing our usual boost and chaos on my way. AND gossip. Wait for me near the lecture hall.

Aria smiled. Every semester began like this. The steady return of known things—except, underneath, that flicker always lingered. Like a question she hadn’t answered yet. A whisper that sometimes said, “Are you sure you're still on the right path?”

She didn’t mind volunteering. It gave her something to focus on besides the swirling what-ifs about course selections, or that quiet thread of doubt she never said aloud. There were moments, late at night, when she wondered if she’d made the wrong choice—if this, now, was a patchwork of recovery or redirection. But the thoughts never settled long enough to name.

She stopped near the front steps of the lecture hall, eyeing the crowd with a mix of curiosity and detachment. New students milled about in uncertain clumps, many clutching their bags, flyers, or the edge of panic. She understood the feeling all too well—not knowing where you fit, hoping no one noticed.

She had that same look once.

Maybe still did, on some days.

The difference now was—she knew the routine. The soft pulse of belonging, of knowing where to go even when the melody still felt new.

“Aria!” A lilting voice rang through the air like a sudden storm. She turned instinctively.

Trust Maya to arrive like a small storm wrapped in denim, balancing two coffee cups. Her curly hair was piled in a messy high bun, oversized hoops dangling as she approached. “For you, milady.”

Aria raised her clipboard in mock salute. “Bless you.”

“You’re welcome.” Maya handed her the cup, then scanned the crowd, lips twitching. “So. There’s a rumor.”

Aria brushed a loose strand of hair from her face as they moved towards the check-in table. “Of course there is.”

Maya leaned in. “Someone big is showing up today. Like, real-world famous kind of big.”

“Famous? Who?”

Maya didn’t answer. Instead, she tilted her chin towards the crowd, her expression unreadable but eyes sharp with meaning.

Aria followed the direction of her gaze, brows drawing together—then paused.

The shift wasn’t immediate. It crept in slowly, like a change in the weather. A hush beneath the usual chatter. Movement that seemed too synchronized to be accidental—heads turning, shoulders straightening, phones lifted just slightly but deliberately.

At first, she didn’t look.

She felt it.

That peculiar stillness—not silence, but a subtle hold of breath. Like the air had folded in on itself for a moment, waiting. The kind of pause that doesn’t stop time, but tugs at it gently—just enough to notice.

And then, her eyes followed the ripple.

He moved through the crowd like he’d always known its shape, unhurried, head slightly lowered, as if listening to something quieter than the chatter around him. His dark, wavy hair curled slightly at the edges, the kind of tousled that spoke more of wind than mirror. The hoodie hung loose, its sleeves tugged halfway down, hands buried in pockets of soft gray cotton. Black jeans, worn-in boots. Nothing about him called attention.

And yet, the air seemed to shimmer around him.

Reyhaan.

The name floated to the front of her mind uninvited, as familiar as a lyric hummed in an empty kitchen.

He didn’t look lost. Didn’t look like he was performing, either. He seemed like someone who didn’t need to try to belong. And somehow, that made people look twice.

Aria’s grip against the paper cup tightened slightly, the warmth grounding but not quite steadying. She didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched—or rather, registered.

She knew that face—not in the loud, poster-on-the-wall way, but in a softer sense. The kind you remember at 2 a.m., when a song keeps you afloat. But here, in a hoodie and boots, slipping past suitcase wheels and half-finished conversations, he wasn’t a headline.

He was just… here.

And for some reason, that felt louder than anything else.

Aria lifted her coffee, took a sip she didn’t quite taste. Beside her, she felt Maya go still.

“He’s coming our way,” she whispered, the words escaping before she could reel them in.

Aria didn’t answer. Instead, she lowered her cup slowly, fingers brushing its rim in time with her heartbeat.

Reyhaan stopped in front of the table. His shoulders were relaxed, the hood of his sweatshirt pushed back slightly. He glanced around, took in the check-in sheets, the flyers, the students waiting.

Then his gaze flicked to her. Just for a moment.

But something in it held. Not recognition or curiosity. Just… stillness.

He reached for the pen to sign-in. “Reyhaan,” he said simply, writing the name like it was any other. His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It slipped out gently, like the last note of a song meant for one person, not a crowd.

Aria handed him a welcome packet without a word, the edges of the folder brushing her palm.

“Thanks,” he said, mouth tugging into something close to a smile.

She caught herself nodding, a quiet reflex. “Welcome to the chaos.”

Reyhaan huffed a soft laugh, the sound caught between amusement and something more cautious. “Looking forward to it.”

And then, just as easily, he turned and walked toward the building behind her, welcome packet tucked under his arm like he hadn’t just sent the courtyard into a hushed kind of spin.

Maya let out a stunned breath. “Okay,” she muttered. “So. He’s enrolled. That’s… that’s a thing.”

Aria took another sip, composing herself. The warmth hit her chest like a soft reset. “He probably wants a normal year.”

“Aren’t we all,” Maya said, still watching him as he slipped through the door. Then, a beat later she nudged Aria gently with her elbow. “You handled that well, by the way. Not a single swoon. I’m impressed.”

“He’s just a student.”

Maya snorted. “A student who’s currently the face of six billboards in Amsterdam.” She gave her a look. “One of them practically waves at you when you cross Leidseplein.”

Shaking her head, Aria pretended to focus on the clipboard again, even though her eyes briefly flicked toward the building entrance. “Well, I’m not walking around staring at ads.”

“Mm-hm,” Maya said, sipping from her cup like it sealed the conversation, but her grin lingered.