The hallway was louder after the break. Shoes scuffed the floors in every direction, voices rising in groups that broke apart just as fast. Flyers crinkled underfoot. Someone laughed too loud. Someone else dropped their bag and cursed softly.
Joanna didn't wait. She just started walking, hands in her jeans pockets like she'd lived in these halls for years.
Lilith followed a few steps behind, eyes on her sketchbook. She didn't bump into anyone, somehow. Like the crowd moved around her instead of the other way around.
I followed them as they went. Neither beside nor behind
The cafeteria echoed the way only college buildings do. The sound bounced around like it didn't know where to land—it just kept returning off bad tile choices.
The smell hit first: something warm, something burnt, something overly clean like lemon soap that didn't belong near food.
Joanna grabbed three trays and slid one into my hands without looking. "You're welcome," she muttered, like she just took a bullet for you or something.
We moved past the food counter. I stared at the choices like they might rearrange themselves if I blinked hard enough.
Joanna grabbed a burger that was falling apart already. "This thing is holding itself together with sheer willpower."
Lilith grabbed two jelly cups and a cup of plain oatmeal.
I ended up with toast and something I hoped was scrambled egg.
The table we picked wasn't crowded. Near the windows, but not in the sun. Quiet, except for the occasional squeak of sneakers and clatter of trays from across the hall.
Joanna dropped into her seat like she'd claimed it years ago. Lilith sat without a sound, her headphones slipping slightly. She placed her sketchbook beside her tray, opened to a half-finished drawing of a moth.
I hovered for a second before sitting across from them. Somewhere between nervous and casual. Like I wasn't overthinking about it. Even though I was.
The toast was dry. The egg was cold.
Joanna poked at her food with dramatic offense. "I give this a solid two out of ten. One bite in and I'm already reconsidering my life choices."
Lilith spooned jelly without blinking. "It's not that bad."
"You have a sugar bias," Joanna shot back, but her tone was fond. She glanced at me. "So. What's your tragic breakfast history?"
I hesitated. "I don't like soggy toast."
She blinked once, then grinned. "Fair. That's a hill worth dying on."
Lilith smiled faintly. I caught it out of the corner of my eye, like a beam of sun off glass.
I hesitated, then glanced sideways. "It was… Lilith, right?"
She didn't look at me right away. Just traced a finger around the rim of her cup.
Then, softly—"Yeah. Lilith Eleanor."
I gave her a subtle nod.
Before I could say anything else, a tray clattered to the floor a few tables away; someone knocked over a tray. The noise echoed too loudly, then faded.
Joanna picked up a napkin and started folding it absentmindedly. "First days are weird. Everyone's trying to prove something."
I didn't say anything, but I knew what she meant.
Lilith was sketching lightly in the corner of her notebook again. I leaned just a bit. It was a spoon this time—slightly bent, with soft shading curling beneath the bowl. She noticed me looking but didn't close the page.
"You draw?" she asked.
I nodded, a little unsure.
"What kind of stuff?"
"…Mostly people. Trees sometimes. And… things I don't really remember right."
She tilted her head but didn't ask what that meant. Just gave a small nod, like it made enough sense to let it be.
Joanna leaned forward this time, resting her chin on her hand. "You've really got that artistic sketchbook vibe."
I let out a laugh before I meant to. Softer than usual, but real.
"You're strange," I said. It came out lighter than I expected. Almost fond.
Joanna grinned. "Took you long enough."
A few people wandered past our table—confident and loud, like they were practicing how to take up space. None of us looked up.
Joanna glanced at her phone. "Fifteen minutes left."
Lilith closed her sketchbook and tilted her head. "Are you headed to the south wing too?
Joanna smirked. "Nah. I've got Music Composition. West wing, 208."
She jerked her chin at me. "You two are both Illustration, right?"
Lilith blinked, then turned to me. "Wait—seriously?"
I hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. First-year. Illustration track."
"You never said," she said, surprised but not upset.
"It's only been, like… ten minutes," Joanna said, laughing. "Anyway. Gotta run."
Lilith's mouth opened—then closed again. She stared at her sketchbook like it owed her an explanation. "…Guess I didn't either."
Joanna stood, stretching her arms over her head. Her chair scraped back as she slung her bag over one shoulder.
I stood with them this time. My tray clinked too loudly when I stacked it, but no one flinched. No one pointed it out.
"See you around," she said, half-saluting and spinning on her heel.
Joanna headed off down the left corridor, vanishing behind a crowd of drama students.
Lilith and I drifted the other way, through the glass double doors and into the sunlight.
Lilith hesitated by the doorway, thumb rubbing the spine of her sketchbook. Then she turned to me.
"Hey… Do you want to sit next to me? In class, I mean." Her voice was soft, but not unsure. "Since you're also in Illustration."
I blinked. "I—yeah. Sure."
Her smile was small but real. "Cool. I like not being alone."
Me too, I almost said. But I just nodded.
We left the cafeteria together, turning into a corridor lined with giant windows. The campus unfolded outside—paths between courtyards, benches under half-blooming trees, and wide buildings with sun-soaked walls.
Lilith walked with her sketchbook clutched to her chest, her steps quick and even. I matched her pace.
"Have you ever been here before?" she asked.
I shook my head. "First time."
She tilted her head. "Like, first time ever?"
I hesitated. "Yeah."
Lilith nodded slowly. "Me too. I didn't even get to visit before enrolling. It was… not really practical."
I wanted to ask what that meant, but the building loomed ahead—tall and slate-grey, with glass panels and curved staircases.
Floor 2, Hall 03. Hence, room 203. Illustration.
We walked into a hallway that smelled faintly of paint and coffee. The walls were lined with student-made posters and old class photos—faces smiling wide, eyes lit with something like possibility.
Outside our classroom, a small group of students had already gathered. Some leaned on their backpacks, scrolling through their phones. Others stood in circles, comparing sketchbooks or laughing too loudly.
Lilith scanned the crowd. "Looks like we're early."
I stayed close. Everything felt too loud, too new, and too bright.
The door opened a few minutes later. We stepped inside.
The classroom was all light and space—long tables with chairs in order, wide windows, and cabinets stacked with supplies. There were no name tags. No assigned seats. Just sunlight and silence and the hush of people choosing corners that made them feel safe.
The classroom buzzed softly. Bags unzipping, pencils rolling, a chair scraping somewhere behind us. Lilith pointed to the window seats and led the way without asking. I followed.
We settled in.
Lilith pulled out a mechanical pencil and started sketching idly on the margin of her syllabus.
I pulled out my own pencil just to hold it.
A few minutes passed. Then, the door clicked open.
The room settled again, the clatter fading like it never happened.
A woman stepped in, calm and composed, dressed in charcoal grey. Not too old, not too stern, but sharp. The kind of person who didn't need to raise her voice to be heard.
She placed her bag on the desk. "Good morning," she said simply. And just like that, the room silenced.
No dramatic pause. Just collective instinct. We straightened, some students already flipping to fresh pages in their sketchbooks.
She smiled faintly. "Welcome to the Illustration orientation class. I'll keep things simple today—introductions, expectations, and then we'll get our hands moving. That's why you're here, isn't it?"
A few chuckles. A pencil snapped in someone's grip.
I glanced sideways at Lilith. Her posture was relaxed, like this was her third year, not her first. Somehow, it steadied me too.
She had just started listing the supplies—"mechanical or graphite pencils, fine-liner pens, bring a sketchbook you're not afraid to ruin"—when the door burst open again.
Everyone turned.
A breathless boy stumbled in. He was panting, just slightly, like he'd sprinted up both floors.
The professor paused.
"Sorry—sorry!" He wheezed, gripping the doorframe like it was a lifeline.
He looked like he had just gotten out of bed. Flushed cheeks, dirty blond curly hair plastered to his forehead, and clothes that screamed golden hour—a cream shirt that's too big, with a lopsided collar, layered over a white t-shirt, sleeves rolled up in a panic, and loose light blue jeans with one ankle cuffed and the other forgotten. His backpack was sliding off one shoulder like it, too, had given up on him.
Someone in the front row giggled.
He blinked at the class, clearly realizing every single eye was on him.
"I—uh—I got lost," he mumbled, panting. "And then there was a vending machine that ate my coin and—uh…"
The professor paused midsentence of her class, mouth tightening. A single disappointed head shake.
Not a word, but the kind that hits harder than any scolding.
Damien winced. "Sorry," he mumbled to the floor. His voice cracked halfway through.
He took a step in. Then another.
And then the professor spoke.
"Name?"
"I—uh. I'm Damien Spencer…," his voice trailing.
She nodded slowly. "Find a seat, Damien. Try not to be eaten again."
More scattered laughter. He grinned sheepishly and scanned the room—and walked in, trying not to look like he was dying inside.
As he passed, someone whispered, "He looks like he just ran a marathon." Someone else snorted.
He spun in a slow, helpless circle, scanning for a seat. Of course, nearly all were full.
A soft sweat glistened at his temples. His fingers twitched at the strap slipping down his arm.
From their corner, Isabelle leaned slightly toward Lilith, her voice a quiet, conspiratorial murmur:
"Should we rescue him, or let him orbit helplessly for a bit longer?"
Lilith smiled faintly. "Mercy mission," she whispered.
Isabelle nudged her bag off the chair beside her, clearing the space. His eyes caught the movement.
He practically collapsed into the seat with a silent "thank you" and dropped his sketchbook on the desk with a dramatic thud.
Lilith glanced sideways at him, deadpan. "Rough morning?"
Damien huffed as he was searching for his pouch. "Stairs are a scam. Elevators were full. I'm a victim."
That made her snort. I couldn't help smiling, either.
He caught it. "Oh good. At least two people here aren't judging me."
"We didn't say that," Lilith said, turning a page in her sketchbook.
He laughed, then froze. "Wait—my a pencil case…"
He said, squinting into his bag. "I know I packed it…"
Lilith blinked at him in surprise. "First day. Illustration class. You forgot your pencils?"
He groaned dramatically, slumping forward on the desk. "I'm never going to recover from this."
Lilith passed him a spare pencil, earning a thanks from him. Again.
Then, almost like it was instinct, he held out his hand to me. "Damien," he said again, softer this time. "Nice to meet you, by the way."
I took it. His grip was warm, a little clammy from the run, but steady.
"Isabelle. Nice to meet you too."
Lilith stared at Damien just as he spotted her.
"Am I not getting a greeting? Or is it just for whoever saves seats? she said, deadpan. Her voice was soft but teasing—like someone poking a snow globe without shaking it too hard, which earned a chuckle from Isabelle.
Damien's eyes widened. "Oh! Sorry—hi! I'm Damien."
He stumbled over, still panting slightly. "Still catching my breath. I promise I'm usually more polite. First-day jitters. And stairs. So many stairs."
Lilith's smile was barely there, just the corner of her mouth moving. Then quietly, "Forgiven. For now."
Damien laughed, a sheepish, breathy sound. "Reasonable."
Outside, sunlight spilled in through the tall windows, painting gold streaks across the tables and the edges of our sketchbooks. The professor had started talking again, but her voice felt far away for a moment. The room hummed with pencil scratches, soft rustles of paper, and the low thud of creativity starting to stir.
I glanced at the two people beside me—one sketching like it was breathing, the other still catching his breath and trying not to grin too wide.
And somehow, I didn't feel quite so lost.