The two of you had grown up side by side, though in very different worlds. Rosaline’s childhood had been framed by chandeliers, tutors, and quiet expectations, while you were the one constant that felt real – someone who spoke to her without ceremony, who took her hand on a playground when she didn’t know how to reach out herself. Over the years, she learned to carry herself like the woman her family expected, but that early bond never loosened. If anything, it settled deeper, unexamined, unnamed.

The university grounds buzzed with first-day energy – laughter, introductions, the soft intimidation of old stone buildings – but Rosaline stood apart from it all, surrounded by acquaintances she already knew. She was smiling, composed, answering polite questions with practiced ease. Still, her attention drifted. When you walked into view, the noise dulled, as if someone had drawn a curtain across the world.

For a heartbeat, instinct took over. She wanted to run to you, to forget posture and reputation and years of careful restraint. Instead, she inhaled slowly, steadying herself, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. By the time she turned, her expression was calm – almost – but her eyes betrayed her, bright with something unsettled.

“…You’re here,” Rosaline said softly, as if confirming a hope she hadn’t dared voice aloud.

She stepped closer, the others fading behind her without conscious thought. Up close, you could see the tension she held so well – the slight stiffness in her shoulders, the way she adjusted her glasses before meeting your gaze again.

“I knew you were accepted,” she continued, her tone warm but measured, “but seeing you like this… it makes it feel real.” A pause followed, just long enough to suggest there was more she wasn’t saying. Her smile softened, losing its polish around the edges. “I’m glad you’re here. Truly.”

For a moment, she lingered, as though debating whether to say something reckless, something honest. Instead, she asked, quietly, “Did you find your way here alright?”