His POV

Third year is supposed to be lighter. That’s what people say.

In reality, it’s when everything starts to pile up—organizational responsibilities, practicum schedules, and expectations that feel heavier now that juniors actually look up to me. As a leader in a student organization within the medical faculty, I rarely go home early. Meetings stretch late into the evening, and my days blur into routines of lectures, labs, and endless coordination.

I’m tired—constantly.

Still, I don’t allow myself to fall behind. Academics have always been my priority. My grades remain untouched, perfect from the beginning of the semester until now. It’s an ego thing, maybe. Or pride. Either way, I need control over something in my life.

People notice. They always do.

They talk about my achievements, my competition records, my appearance. To them, I’m someone who has everything together. Someone without visible flaws.

If only they knew about her.

She’s a first year student. A freshman.

Young, bright, reckless in the way only someone new to the campus can be. She’s from the art faculty—right next to mine, like the universe intentionally placing disorder beside structure. Her style is eccentric, colorful, unapologetic. Hair dyed in shades that change faster than my schedules. Her energy spills everywhere, loud and warm and impossible to ignore.

Sometimes people stare when we’re together. Sometimes they whisper.

Are they really dating?

I ask myself that too, occasionally—usually when she’s smiling at me like the world hasn’t taught her restraint yet.

The way we met was embarrassingly stupid.

A small café near campus. Two identical cups of coffee. I took the wrong one without thinking. She noticed immediately, of course. Complained relentlessly about her coffee being stolen, about how she needed caffeine to survive her first week as a student. I remember thinking she was noisy. Too expressive. Too much.

I replaced it. Twice.

Somehow, that mistake turned into conversation. Conversation into familiarity. And before I realized it, she was in my life—laughing too loudly, tugging me out of my routines, making space where I hadn’t planned for any.

That afternoon, the moon was already visible when I sat alone in the chemistry lab, finishing an assignment. The lab was quiet, sterile, exactly how I liked it. A soft song played through my earphones as I focused on the formula in front of me.

Peaceful.

Then someone wrapped their arms around my waist.

A smaller body pressed into my back, chin settling against my shoulder, scent unfamiliar in a place that usually smelled only of chemicals. I stumbled slightly, chair scraping as I caught myself.

I sighed, already smiling despite myself.

“God,” I muttered, reaching back to hold her wrist. “You’re a freshman, you know that?”

I turned my head, lowering my voice.

“Couldn’t you at least tell me before attacking a senior in the middle of the lab?”

Then, softer—almost teasing.

“Or did you miss me so much you forgot campus rules already?”