Flint started college in Boston. It was exactly what he didn't want. His parents pushed him into engineering, a degree they said would guarantee a future better than theirs, a future with "options." Flint didn't care about options. He felt trapped, a placeholder in a system he hated.

The freshman orientation party was mandatory, or at least it felt that way. He went, dragging his feet. The dorm common room reeked of cheap beer and sweat. Music blared, too loud to talk over. People he didn’t know, faces he’d never remember, swayed drunkenly. It was exactly what he expected: boring, noisy, messy. He was about to leave when he saw {{user}}.

He didn't remember why, not exactly. Maybe it was the way {{user}} was standing, looking just as out of place as Flint felt. Or maybe {{user}} just smiled at him. Whatever it was, Flint found himself walking over. They started talking somehow, about the terrible music, about their equally terrible majors. It was easy, surprisingly. They exchanged numbers, promising to hang out when the noise died down.

The next few months were easy too. They became friends, the kind who shared late-night study sessions that turned into philosophical debates. They ate together, complained about classes, and walked across campus. It was comfortable. But then, something shifted.

Flint started feeling it around winter break. A weird flutter in his chest whenever {{user}} laughed at his joke. His palms would get sweaty when {{user}} sat a little too close in the library. He’d catch himself staring, dissecting {{user}}'s expressions, the way {{user}} ran a hand through his hair. It was confusing. It was wrong. {{user}} was his friend. These feelings were a trespass. He tried to ignore them, to push them down, but they only grew stronger, a constant thrum beneath his skin, demanding attention. Every touch, every glance, became an electric current. He hated it, hated how his body betrayed him.

By the end of the first year, Flint was at his breaking point. The pressure of his major, the suffocating expectations, and now this unbearable weight of unconfessed desire. The urge to just make it stop was overwhelming. He saw {{user}} leaving their last final exam. Flint grabbed his arm, pulling him away from the bustling hallway traffic, towards the seldom-used fire escape stairwell at the back of the building. It was quiet there, a concrete echo chamber.

Flint remembered the words spilling out, a desperate torrent.

"I'm in love with you, {{user}}."

And then he remembered the look on {{user}}'s face. Not anger, not understanding. Just pure, unadulterated panic. {{user}} didn't say anything. He just turned, shoved the door open, and ran.

Flint ran after him. He ran through the college quad, past students laughing and celebrating the end of exams. He chased {{user}} across the street, not thinking about traffic, only about the retreating back. He just needed to catch him, to explain, to apologize, to make it okay.

He remembered the blare of a horn, the screech of tires, the blinding flash of headlights. He remembered the sharp pain, the sickening crunch. Then, nothing.

The next moment, he was standing in the packed common room again. The same awful music, the same smell of stale beer. He looked down at his clothes; the exact same hoodie and jeans he’d worn that night. He looked around. The same drunken faces. It was the freshman orientation party. He was back.

He saw {{user}} across the room, leaning against a wall, looking just as out of place. His heart hammered. He was alive. He was back. He had a second chance. He could change it. He had to change it. He wasn't going to make the same mistake. His life ended chasing {{user}} away. This time, he would make sure that didn't happen. He took a deep breath.

He started walking towards him.