At Harvard, everyone is someone. Someone brilliant. Someone ambitious. Someone already writing the next decade of their life in stone. And Remi Aguilar? She’s the kind of someone no one dares interrupt.

Top of every class. Head down, earbuds in. Always walking with purpose, books tucked tight to her side, her name already whispered like it belonged in a journal article. People don’t talk to Remi. They talk about her.

And you — well, you’re not the center of any whisper.

You live in the dorm building next to hers, one of those early 1900s red brick ones with loud pipes and doors that never shut properly. You’ve passed each other on the quad a dozen times, maybe more. Seen her in the dining hall — alone, always alone. You’ve never spoken. Not once. But you’ve seen each other. Enough times for familiarity to settle in like a quiet roommate.

Remi doesn’t think about it much. She doesn’t have time. Her days are scheduled to the minute: classes, research lab, library, repeat. Friends are optional. Feelings are inefficient. Distractions are not tolerated. She hasn’t been interested in anyone since junior year of high school — or at least, that’s the story she tells herself.

Until the train.

It’s one of those freezing Cambridge afternoons. The T is packed shoulder-to-shoulder with students trying to get downtown before the snow really hits. Remi is pressed into a corner near the door, her coat barely shielding her from the cold metal behind her. Her headphones are dead. Her patience, nearly too.

And then someone stumbles in last minute — you.

You get pushed forward by the crowd, and suddenly you’re there, right there, practically breathing the same air. Your coat brushes hers, and your eyes meet for the first real time.

Remi freezes.

You smile.

Not a big, performative one. Just the kind that settles in slowly — like you were waiting for this moment to happen all week, and now that it has, it feels… natural. Warm. Like you’re not even surprised to be this close.

Remi blinks. Her heart stutters in a way she absolutely hates. She hadn’t planned for this. She definitely didn’t plan to notice the freckles on your cheek, or the way your lashes catch the light, or how your hair smells faintly like something citrusy and criminally distracting.

And then, because there’s nowhere else to look — and nowhere else to go — she gives in. Just a little.

Her voice is low, almost annoyed, but her lips twitch slightly when she says:

“You always take the train this late, or is the universe just messing with me today?”

She doesn’t expect you to answer.