When Your Name Found Mine
Chapter Two — First Glance
The next morning, the campus buzzed with that mid-semester restlessness that comes when assignments pile up faster than sleep. The sky had cleared after last night's rain, leaving the air sharp and bright, the kind that made every leaf look like it was painted.
I tucked the letter into my notebook before heading out, though I wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe part of me thought I might run into one of the Daves from the directory, and if I did, I could pull it out, point to the handwriting, and say, This is yours, right?
But more likely, I just didn't want to leave it sitting on my desk like a secret I wasn't ready to ignore.
My first class was Intro to Sociology in Hamilton Hall, a cavernous lecture theater that could fit two hundred students. I arrived early enough to grab a seat in the middle row, where I could see the slides without feeling like I was in the professor's lap.
As I pulled out my notebook, the letter's cream envelope peeked from between my notes. I shoved it deeper, but not before the girl next to me — one of those effortlessly put-together people with perfect hair even at 8:30 a.m. — gave me a curious glance.
"Old-fashioned," she said, nodding at the envelope. "You don't see many of those anymore."
I smiled faintly. "Yeah. Kind of a mistake, actually."
She opened her mouth to ask more, but the professor began speaking, and the hall fell into the scratch-and-click rhythm of pens and laptops. I tried to focus on the lecture about social constructs, but my mind kept drifting to the three names I'd seen in the directory: Dave Kendall, Dave Moreno, and Dave Sinclair.
After class, I ducked into the campus café. The line was long, full of bleary-eyed students clutching reusable mugs like lifelines. I was halfway through debating whether to risk the overpriced blueberry muffin when someone behind me said, "Hey, Evelyn, right?"
I turned.
He was taller than I expected, maybe six feet, with messy dark hair and the kind of smile that looked like it had been trained on purpose — slow, a little hesitant, as if testing the waters. He wore a faded North State University hoodie and carried a notebook under one arm, his other hand holding a coffee cup.
I blinked. "Uh… yeah."
"Sorry," he said quickly. "You were in the sociology lecture just now, right? I think I've seen you before."
"Oh. Yeah, that was me."
He shifted his notebook, revealing the name scrawled across the cover in block letters: Dave M.
My stomach tightened.
I nodded toward his notebook. "Moreno?"
"Yeah," he said, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "How'd you—"
I shrugged. "Just… good at remembering names."
The line moved forward, and I tried to focus on the menu board, but it was impossible not to feel the weight of the letter in my bag. The name on the envelope. The way his smile seemed both familiar and not.
We ended up at the counter at the same time, ordering side by side. He paid for his coffee and then, without hesitation, said, "Want to sit? I've got about twenty minutes before my next class."
I hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding.
We found a table near the windows. Sunlight poured in, catching the little droplets still clinging to the glass from last night's rain. Dave set his coffee down, wrapping both hands around it like he needed the warmth.
"So, sociology," he said. "What's your major?"
"Psychology," I said. "You?"
"Architecture. But I'm taking sociology because…" He grinned. "Well, because I heard it was an easy A. Turns out there's a lot more reading than I thought."
I laughed — not the kind of laugh in the letter, not yet, but enough to make him lean back slightly, watching me like he was cataloging something.
"You're from North Residence, right?" he asked.
I froze for just a moment. "Yeah. How do you—"
"Saw you at the mail center yesterday," he said. "You were holding some fancy-looking envelope."
My heart thumped once, hard.
I tried to keep my tone casual. "You have a good memory."
He shrugged. "It stood out. Most of us just get junk mail or overdue notices."
There was no flicker of recognition in his face, nothing to suggest he'd been the one to write it. But that didn't mean anything.
We talked for a while longer — about professors, about the best study spots on campus, about how the architecture building had the worst coffee machines in the university. He was easy to talk to, in that unassuming way that made you forget you'd only just met.
When his phone buzzed, he glanced at the screen and winced. "Gotta run. Studio class."
I nodded. "Thanks for the coffee company."
He smiled again — that same careful smile — and left.
I sat there for a long time after he'd gone, staring at the sunlight on the rain-streaked glass. Then I reached into my bag, pulled out the envelope, and turned it over in my hands.
The signature still read: — Dave.
And now I knew at least one Dave who might have written it.
But whether it was him… that was still a question I wasn't ready to answer.