The night wrapped the world in a velvet hush, the moon hanging low like a quiet witness in the sky. A soft breeze slipped through the open window, rustling the corners of scattered papers on my desk. Crickets chirped in the distance, their rhythm steady, almost meditative. Outside, the trees stood still, their shadows swaying faintly under the silver glow.
And here I was—sorting out the important documents I needed to take with me.
The time was drawing close. I didn't have much of it left.
About ten minutes later, I was done. Just then, my phone buzzed on the table.
I picked it up.
The screen showed the name: Solace.
He was calling.
Somehow, our all-day texts had quietly transformed into long calls. We still talked for hours, though not as frequently as before. After the final exams, life had become busier—both of us preparing for new beginnings. But none of that changed what we had.
We were more like a couple now.
We hadn't made it official.
He never said those three words.
Nor did I.
But we both knew.
We had each other in our hearts.
Even if our situations made everything feel uncertain.
I answered the call.
Solace's calm voice flowed through the speaker, "Are you busy?"
There's just something about his voice. I don't know what it is exactly—but I could listen to it all day. It's warm. Steady. Like a soft melody that never gets old.
"Hello?" he said again, gently.
I smiled wryly to myself. I'd gotten lost in his voice.
I'm a grown woman, and yet... sometimes, I still act like a maiden in love.
"Just sorting out the documents," I replied.
"Should I call later, then?"
"No need. I just finished."
"I see. So, have you had dinner yet?"
"Nope. I'll eat later. How about you? Did you eat?"
"Yeah. A few minutes ago."
"You ate without me?" I pouted, letting a playful humph escape my lips.
Solace laughed—and oh, that laugh.
His voice... I really am addicted to it.
"If you want to eat together, why don't we meet?"
Wait. Meet?
I didn't know what to say. We'd planned to meet soon—maybe even tomorrow—but I'd forgotten all about it with everything going on.
"Lily?" he said again, gently.
"I think it's doable," I managed. "So... when should we meet?"
A warm feeling welled up inside me. Anticipation.
"Don't say meet," he teased. "Let's say... go on a date. How does that sound?"
I couldn't help but smile.
He really knows how to make me laugh. And feel cozy. And wanted.
"Yeah. Sounds good. Let's decide on the time and place."
.....
Days went by as I my classes in University started. The new environment, new people, new things to learn.
Brighton University wasn't just an institution — it was a city within a city. Spread across blocks that tangled between ancient trees and crowded footpaths, it stood as the crown jewel of Navara's academic pride. Founded almost a century ago, its legacy was steeped in history, protest, reform, and a quiet defiance that shaped the nation's brightest minds.
The campus wasn't enclosed by walls. It bled into the streets of Brighton, as if the university and the city had grown into each other — inseparable, interwoven. Red-bricked academic buildings stood proudly beside roadside tea stalls. The architecture was a patchwork of colonial-era facades, modern glass structures, and weathered concrete halls. Some walls were faded by rain and time, others covered in layers of protest posters, class notes, poetry, and revolution slogans scrawled in chalk.
At the heart of the university stood a great open field — not perfectly green, but alive with students lounging on the grass, debating everything from philosophy to football. In the mornings, the field glistened with dew; by afternoon, it echoed with laughter, rallies, and the occasional guitar strum.
The administrative building loomed like a silent guardian — solemn, aged, its wide staircases worn down by generations of hurried footsteps. Just beside it, the old library towered like a cathedral of silence. Inside, the scent of old paper, wooden shelves, and ink held the weight of decades. Students often joked that even the ghosts inside read books.
Brighton University's departments sprawled in all directions — arts to the north, sciences to the south, law tucked into a quieter corner, and business rising in polished buildings nearby. Each faculty had its own culture, its own unofficial hangout spots, and its own stories to tell.
Cafeterias were always crowded — not because of the food (which was often questionable), but because of the buzz. Politics brewed there more than tea. Friendships formed. Hearts broke. Ideas were born.
Banyan trees dotted the pathways like wise old sentinels, their roots spilling across red pavement bricks. In spring, fallen flower petals turned the ground into a crimson mosaic. In monsoon, the entire campus turned slippery and poetic — umbrellas blooming like flowers, sandals splashing through puddles, and love stories taking shelter under stairwells.
And then there was the energy — the intangible spirit of Brighton University. Fiercely intellectual, stubbornly idealistic, and endlessly loud. Students here didn't just attend classes. They marched. They created. They challenged. They dreamed.
Getting admitted here was like earning a badge of honor — not just because of its prestige, but because of what it meant. It meant you belonged to something bigger. Something alive.
Brighton University was not perfect. It was chaotic, messy, often disorganized. But it was real. Honest. Breathing.
And for those lucky enough to walk its halls — it was unforgettable.
For me Brighton University was not only a place to study. It was a training ground. A place which will help me in achieving my goals.
Coming to Brighton, one other reason was to meet her. Lily. After talking that day, we decided to meet the next Saturday noon. The girl I talked over phone for over a year. Finally I'm about to meet her.