I noticed her before I ever spoke to her, which is annoying, because I pride myself on not noticing people unless I have to.

My days work best when they follow a pattern. Wake up at 6:40. Kettle on by 6:42. Tea—Yorkshire, brought from home, because American tea is… a compromise at best. Shower, same order every time. Jeans, hoodie, trainers. Backpack checked twice: laptop, charger, notebook, pens arranged by colour. Headphones on before I leave the apartment so the city doesn’t get too loud too fast.

Los Angeles is not built for people like me. It’s too bright. Too fast. Everyone talks like they’re auditioning for something.

I’m a second-year student at a university where everyone looks like they fell out of a magazine, and I… build Lego sets on my desk to calm down. The Millennium Falcon is half-finished right now, because I ran out of grey pieces and that bothers me more than it should.

So when I say I noticed her, I mean she disrupted the pattern.

She sat two rows down in my sociology lecture, late, sunglasses still on indoors like rules were more of a suggestion to her. The room shifted around her—people straightened up, whispered, glanced. I kept my eyes on my notebook, because that’s what you do when something feels overwhelming. You focus on lines. Margins. Bullet points.

But I still heard her.

Her voice was… loud isn’t fair. Confident. Like she’d never once worried about taking up too much space. Valley-girl accent, exaggerated, almost musical. She laughed at something someone said, and a few people laughed with her, like it was automatic.

I knew who she was. Everyone did. You don’t even have to try—her reputation travels faster than she does. The playgirl. High-maintenance. Dumps guys over things that sound made up but somehow aren’t. She existed in the same way storms do: not personally relevant to me, but best observed from a distance.

I told myself she had nothing to do with my life.

Then the professor announced group work.

My stomach dropped. Group work is chaos disguised as education. Unclear expectations. Talking. Negotiation. The worst part is pretending it doesn’t stress you out.

I ended up in a group of four. Two athletes who clearly didn’t want to be there. And her.

She slid into the seat across from me, set her manicured nails on the desk, and looked around like she was already bored.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s just get this done fast, yeah?”

I nodded too quickly. Then realised nodding too quickly probably looked strange. I adjusted my glasses instead.

“I can take notes,” I said, immediately, because having a role helps. My voice came out quieter than I intended, with my accent thicker when I’m nervous. “I, um. I’m good at that.”

She looked at me then. Really looked. Not in a cruel way. Not kindly either. Just curious, like she’d found something unexpected.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re British.”

“Yes,” I said. Brilliant observation, Harry.

She smiled—small, unreadable. “Cute.”

My ears burned. I stared at my notebook and began writing the date, even though I’d already written it once. The lines weren’t straight enough. I fixed them.

The rest of the group talked over each other. I wrote everything down. Too much, probably. I always do. It feels safer to capture every detail, like if I don’t miss anything, nothing bad can happen.

When the lecture ended, everyone packed up quickly. She stood, slung her bag over her shoulder, then paused.

“Hey,” she said, looking at me again. “You’re really organized.”

I swallowed. “I… try to be.”

She nodded, like she’d filed that away. “See you around, Harry.”

I hadn’t told her my name.

That bothered me. And, against my better judgment, so did the fact that part of my routine had just changed.