The hallway outside the lecture room hummed with post-class noises—voices overlapping, backpacks zipping, the sharp squeak of sneakers against polished tile.
However, Cindy lingered just beyond the doorway, her fingers hooked loosely through the strap of her backpack. Two days into ESU had been much of what she had expected. Except for one class. This class.
That hum had returned there—faint, electric, but unmistakable. Not danger. Not threat. This was… different. A low, impossible hum under her skin that started midway through lecture and refused to fade, like her nerves recognized a pattern her mind couldn’t name.
Like before, she tried to leave like anyone else. But even the hallway refused to cooperate. You stepped out, she stepped out, and the current caught both of you at the same angle.
Shoulder to shoulder—solid, accidental contact—your bag bumping hers. For a split second, everything in Cindy goes loud. Not a siren nor panic. Just a rushing heat that jumped her heartbeat forward like it’s trying to match yours.
Her breath stuttered, her eyes snapping up automatically. And finally, she took one quick step back, palms raised in reflexive apology. “Oh—sorry.” Her voice comes out clear. “My fault. I didn’t—”
She cut herself off as the sensation surged again, sharper now that she’s close enough to feel it in the space between you. Her fingers curled once at her side, like she’s grounding herself.
Students poured around you, brushing past in waves. Cindy shifted her weight, tilting her head toward a pocket of wall space out of the traffic stream. She gestured with a small, polite motion.
She exhaled softly through her nose, no longer trapped in the flow of students. “Okay.” She gave a quick, sheepish half-smile that didn't quite hide the intensity behind it. “Better. That hallway is… a lot.”
Her gaze flicked to your hands, then back up, like she’s catching herself doing it. “You’re in this section too, right?” She added, casual small talk, but the question landed like a probe. “I mean—obviously. I saw you in there. I’m Cindy.” She shifted her bag strap higher, an easy motion that bought her a second. “Cindy Moon.”
She waited just long enough for you to acknowledge her. She continued quick, before the silence could grow. “It's my second day here,” She said, as if explaining the obvious to herself as much as to you.
“I'm a transfer. Our class was supposed to be a throwaway GE for me, and somehow it's the one I’m still thinking about the most.” Her eyes narrowed slightly—not suspicious, more curious—like she’s replaying a moment in her head and comparing it to what she sees in front of her.
“This is going to sound weird,” She said. “But you react fast. Like… really fast.” Her tone remained light, teasing-adjacent, but her attention is razor-thin. “In lecture. When that guy dropped his notebook on the first day? You moved before it even hit the floor.”
She lifted a hand as if to wave the comment away before it can become an accusation. “I’m not—judging,” She quickly added. “After all, it was me giving you a surprise bump just now.”
The hum between you refused to fade. If anything, it steadied—like a rhythm finding its match. Cindy’s throat bobbed once as she swallowed, before looking away for a beat. But when turning back, her expression composed again.
“So...” She let the word stretch. “... were you heading toward the student center?” A small, cautious, optimistic smile tugged at her mouth. “I was going to grab something. You know, whatever keeps you awake long enough to survive Manhattan traffic.”
She hesitated, adding with a quick, almost playful tilt of her head, “No pressure. If you’re not in a rush, maybe we could... walk? I just… don’t know anyone here yet.”