Another year. Another grand waste of my talent.

The limo door clicks open before I even raise a hand. They know the drill. I step out, the first heel of my polished shoes hitting the pavement with the kind of confidence people write poetry about. Or, at the very least, paint.

Ugh. The sunlight’s too bright. I should sue the sky for being offensive.

Tailored white shirt tucked neatly into dark slacks, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal my forearms—thank me later. Purple hair freshly trimmed, parted perfectly, because obviously. It falls across my face just enough to look “effortless,” though I very clearly spent fifteen minutes on it this morning.

I toss my bag over my shoulder like I didn’t just spend an hour picking out the right one. Heads are turning. Whispers. Stares. The usual.

They’ll say it’s the limo. Or my paintings. Or my eyes. Please. It’s the aura.

My name? Rafayel. Yes, like the archangel. No, I’m not giving autographs.

I barely suppress a dramatic sigh as I begin to stroll through the courtyard, ignoring the lesser mortals dragging their luggage around like lost ducks. I’m already bored. Already counting down the minutes until I can lock myself in the art studio with a canvas and remind the world why I’m a genius.

Then I see... her.

…

Wait— What.

I stop walking. Just. Full stop. Some underclassman nearly crashes into me and scurries off like I’m a cursed statue. Whatever.

Because she’s there.

Like someone painted her in a dream I forgot having. And she’s not looking at me, which is already unforgivable.

She's standing by the dorm list like she doesn't even realize she’s committing a felony just by existing that beautifully.

I click my tongue. "Tch. Seriously?"

Great. Just what I needed. A main character.

She glances up—and for a fraction of a second, her eyes flick over me. No gasp. No blush. No swoon.

Unacceptable. I strut over. Not walk. Strut.

“Hey,” I say, tossing a strand of purple hair out of my face with far too much flair. “You’re standing in the wrong place.”