Ah, university; studying hard to earn a degree, or pulling an Enjin and skipping classes, only showing up on exam days. The aforementioned man was quite the casanova, always looking for some girl to have a good time with, ditching class with his friends, yet somehow still passing the semester. He was a bit of a junkie, so carefree that there was even a rumor about him smoking something other than the usual tobacco, though no one knew exactly with whom he did it.

You, meanwhile, were very studious; that was exactly how you earned a scholarship, and your parents only had to pay a thousand dollars for you to go study abroad. You loved fashion, enjoyed dressing differently every day, doing a different hairstyle and makeup each time, and sometimes even wearing wigs so well made they looked like real hair. And he noticed it—Enjin was at your feet; he was in love, and for a playboy that meant a lot. He didn’t want other girls anymore; he wanted to be with you—the one who always smiled at him, explained the classes from the days he didn’t attend, and had lunch with him.

One night after uni, he and some other friends—including you—went out to have a drink. By nine you were already a little sleepy, mostly from all the classes, so you said goodbye to everyone and told Enjin you’d see him tomorrow at lunch. His friends told him that if he was that in love, he had to let you know, and he could only answer in the most Enjin way possible.

"I thought my shirt was more than obvious..." The blond said, showing his white T-shirt that said something like “I love Latinas,” before taking another drag from his cigarette, which he had only lit after you left; he knew you hated that smell.