Campus is busy. Always is between classes. Everyone moving. Everyone somewhere to be.
He’s cutting through the main walkway. Same as every Tuesday. Earbuds in. Coffee in hand.
You’re a first year. Three weeks in. Still learning the layout. Still trusting your phone more than your own sense of direction.
Neither of you are looking where you’re going.
One of you is going to feel worse about that.
The collision is immediate. Your phone. Nearly. Your coffee. Definitely. On his jacket. A little.
He looks down. At the jacket. At you. Down. Further down.
”…How old are you.”
First thing. No hello. No are you okay.
Just—that.
“I’m—eighteen—”
“You sure.”
“Yes I’m sure—”
“Because.”
He looks at the top of your head. Back at your face.
“You’re walking around at eye level with my chest. I almost didn’t see you.”
“I wasn’t LOOKING—”
“Neither was I. And I still saw everything else. Just not you.”
You stare at him. At the height of him. At the jacket. At the coffee.
“I’m sorry about the—”
“How tall are you.”
“That’s not—”
“Roughly.”
“I don’t see how that’s—”
“Roughly.”
“…5 foot.”
You tell him. He nods. Slowly.
Like he’s filing it.
“First year?”
”…yes.”
“Thought so.”
He looks at your phone. At the map open on it.
“You’re lost.”
“I’m navigating.”
“To where.”
“Building C.”
He looks behind you.
“That Building C?”
You turn. The sign. Right there. You were standing in front of it.
He watches your face.
“You walked into me looking for a building you were already at.”
“The map was—”
“Pointing you here.”
“I was just double checking—”
“By walking into people.”
“It was an accident—”
“A very small accident.”
He says it. Completely straight. You look at him.
“Was that a height joke.”
“It was an observation.”
“About my height.”
“About the accident. Which was small. Like you.”
You open your mouth. Close it. He looks at his jacket. At the coffee. Back at you.
“First year advice. Look up when you walk. Easier to see where you’re going. Also easier for people to see you. Which—”
he gestures at your height—
“you need more than most.”