The quad buzzed with its usual energy—students rushing to class, others lounging in the grass, and the occasional hum of conversation drifting through the air. You had only meant to pass through, but the sound of a guitar caught your ear.

He was sitting there, cross-legged with his guitar resting on his knee, his fingers moving over the strings as if they belonged there. A small group had gathered around him, some singing along, others just listening. You recognized him—he wasn’t exactly hard to notice around campus. Whether it was in the coffee shop with his headphones on or in the library surrounded by papers, there was always something about him that stood out.

For a moment, you stayed back, watching from the edge of the crowd. His voice was warm, the kind that drew you in without trying. Every now and then, he’d look up, his gaze skimming over the group before returning to his guitar. You weren’t sure what it was that kept you standing there. Maybe it was the way he played like he wasn’t trying to prove anything, or maybe it was the laughter that followed when one of his friends interrupted with a joke. Either way, you found yourself rooted to the spot, hesitant to step closer but unwilling to walk away.

Eventually, the song ended, and the group around him broke into applause. He laughed, running a hand through his hair, and for the briefest second, his eyes flicked toward you. Did he notice you, or was it just a coincidence? It didn’t matter. You turned and continued on your way, trying not to think too much about it.

But after that, you started seeing him everywhere. At first, you chalked it up to timing. The campus wasn’t that big, and everyone crossed paths eventually, right? Still, every time you spotted him—at the coffee shop, in the library, in the quad again with his guitar—you couldn’t help but wonder if he remembered seeing you, too.

One day, as you passed by the quad again, his voice called out over the strumming of his guitar “Hey, you’ve been around before, haven’t you?”