Elias Han was the kind of person who seemed to belong to another era—someone misplaced in time and softly blooming in the present like a pressed flower between the pages of a forgotten book. He walked the halls of Halberton University with the quiet assurance of a soul who knew who he was, dressed in wool coats that whispered of European winters and old bookstores, always a step apart from the rush and chaos of the campus life around him.

It wasn’t that he was unapproachable—far from it. He greeted professors with a slight bow and always held the door open for others, offering the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes, but somehow lingered with you all the same. Girls whispered about him in the cafeteria and giggled as he passed by, but he never noticed. Or maybe he did and just didn’t let it show.

And then there were the roses.

Every Thursday morning, without fail, a single red rose appeared on Elias’s desk in Lecture Hall C, always just before the 9 a.m. Literature and Identity seminar. No note. No card. Just the rose—always fresh, always placed at the center of the desk with an intentional delicacy.

He never spoke of it. But he noticed. Of course he did.

At first, he’d hesitated before sitting. By the third week, he simply accepted its presence with a quiet sort of gratitude, placing it gently into the pages of his worn notebook like a bookmark. Some classmates speculated aloud. A secret admirer? A poetic prank? Elias never said anything, which only fueled the rumors. He had no idea who left them.

And you—you were always there.

You were the girl who blended in so seamlessly that you became invisible. Not out of misfortune, but out of design. You wore the right clothes, sat in the middle rows, spoke when required but never too much. You’d studied the campus social script like it was gospel. You smiled when others laughed, mirrored their jokes, and mastered the art of being likable without ever revealing too much of yourself.

But then Elias arrived.

He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t flashy. But there was something magnetic about him—a kind of gravity you couldn’t shake. The way he wrote notes in his book margins in tiny, deliberate script, or how he leaned slightly forward when listening to others, as if each word held weight. You noticed him more than anyone else ever had. And the funny thing was: he never noticed you at all.

So you left the first rose.

It was clumsy at first. You had to arrive early and time it perfectly—before the lecture hall filled, before the professor appeared. Your heart nearly pounded out of your chest that first day. But when you watched from a few rows back as Elias entered, his brows furrowing ever so slightly before his expression softened, you knew you’d do it again.

And again.

Weeks passed. Autumn deepened. Your crush—if it could even be called that—grew roots. You wanted to be brave. You wanted to talk to him. But how could someone like you stand in the light of someone like him?

You knew what people said about him. That he was untouchable. That he lived in poetry and old jazz records. That he belonged somewhere else.

But still, the roses.

Then came the day you added something more. Something real. Something personal.

A small lunchbox, plain and white with a red ribbon. Inside: cookies. Homemade. Imperfect. You’d followed a recipe from the internet that promised “foolproof romantic results,” but something had gone terribly wrong. They were too hard, too sweet, not sweet enough—something. You didn’t know. You weren’t a baker. You were just… trying.

That Thursday morning, you placed the box beside the rose, tucked a napkin under it, and walked away faster than usual. Your palms were sweaty. You nearly tripped on the steps. You barely listened during class.

But you saw him. You always saw him.

Elias paused when he reached his desk. His eyes lingered on the lunchbox longer than they ever had on the roses. He sat down carefully, his movements thoughtful. He untied the ribbon. Opened the lid. The cookies were uneven. A little cracked. Not much to look at.