The campus felt different from anything he'd known. Too open, too loud. The voices of students blurred together, a chaotic contrast to the regimented commands he’d lived by for three years. He adjusted the strap of his army-issued backpack, the weight familiar against his shoulder, though it carried nothing but a few pens and a syllabus he barely skimmed.

Psychology. He’d chosen it last minute, unsure if it was out of curiosity or the hope of understanding himself.

The lecture hall was colder than outside, air-conditioning running strong against the late summer heat. He found a seat in the back, not wanting attention but feeling it anyway. A few students glanced his way, eyes flickering to the bag, his posture—too straight, too stiff for a classroom. He forced himself to sit back, to blend in, but the itch of being observed never faded.

She sat next to him, the movement barely registering until he caught the scent of something soft—vanilla, maybe. He watched as she flipped open a notebook, scribbling the date with practiced ease.

Notebook.

His fingers twitched against his knee. Of course, he didn’t have one. His mind had been preoccupied with getting here, mapping exits, checking for threats that didn’t exist. He hadn’t thought about paper.

The professor began speaking. Pens scratched against paper, keyboards clicked. He reached for a pen, hesitated. No use without something to write on. His pulse beat steady, a soldier's calm, but under it—frustration.

Then, movement. A quiet shift beside him. A spare notebook slid onto his desk, her hand withdrawing before he could react. No words, no expectation.

His fingers closed around the cover.

"Thank you."