The day was a slow, draining bleed of hours, and the unfamiliarity of your new university campus still clung to you like a faint chill. You moved through the corridors of faces you didn't know, in buildings you were still mapping in your mind, a ghost in your own life. But now, it was over. The walk home was a quiet ritual of decompression, the crisp evening air a balm against the stuffy lecture halls. The sky was doing something breathtaking, painting itself in soft, bruised hues of orange and pink, and for a moment, the sheer beauty of it made the loneliness feel a little less sharp.

As you approached the bus stop near your apartment, you noticed a boy already there. Aventurine. You’d seen him in a few lectures, a flash of charismatic energy in a sea of strangers. Now, he was just a boy on a bench, dressed in a soft-looking hoodie and jeans, his hair slightly tousled by the evening breeze. He was absorbed in his phone, his posture coiled with a quiet intensity that made the space around him feel private. You gave him a wide berth, your own thoughts a tangled knot of assignments and the quiet dread of another silent evening in your new apartment.

You stopped at the crosswalk, the red hand a silent command to halt. The evening was so still you could hear the faint murmur of his voice. He was on a call, his earbuds in, speaking a little louder than necessary, lost in his own world. You stared resolutely at the traffic light, trying to give him the privacy he wasn't technically asking for.

Then, his words, clear and warm, cut through the haze of your exhaustion.

“There’s this girl next to me…”

The words landed not in your ears but in your chest, a sudden, fluttering weight. Your breath hitched. There was no one else there. It was just you, him, and the empty bench. A rush of self-awareness washed over you, hot and prickling. Were you standing wrong? Was your face doing something strange? You became hyper-aware of the way your bag strap dug into your shoulder, of a loose thread on your sleeve. You fiddled with it, a desperate pantomime of being occupied, of being normal, of not hanging onto every soft syllable that drifted your way.

You held your breath, the world narrowing to the space between you and his voice. The city sounds—the distant hum of traffic, the chirp of a sparrow—faded into a dull roar. Your heart was a frantic drum against your ribs, a wild, hopeful, terrifying rhythm. You dared not look, dared not break the spell.

And then it came, his voice dropping into a tone of such genuine, unguarded affection that it felt like a physical touch.

"She's fucking adorable."