When I first met him, I felt nothing.
It was my second year at university, and my whole world revolved around the school paper. Deadlines, ink-stained fingers, late nights thick with the smell of coffee and half-finished drafts—that was my rhythm, my anchor. My rented room overlooked the campus, tucked inside a co-ed building where laughter and music often spilled through thin walls. Boys and girls lived side by side, each lost in their own version of youth, chasing dreams or distractions.
He was a transfer student. Rough around the edges, with a temper that made people whisper in the hallways. Not the kind of person I would've ever thought twice about. I had someone else back then—someone I thought I loved, someone I thought would matter. So when I passed him in the corridor, his eyes cold and his expression careless, I didn't even slow my steps.
Back then, he was just another face in a crowded year of my life. And I was certain he would remain just that. But life has its own quiet way of weaving threads you don't notice until you're already tangled.
Because back then, there was someone else. His name was Mark.
If you asked me then, I would have said he was everything I wanted—warm, boy-next-door, the kind of guy who made people laugh without trying too hard. We met through friends, and somehow, I slipped easily into his world. There were afternoons spent at their apartment, lazy hours stretched out on worn couches, late-night conversations that made the world outside disappear. He had a way of looking at me like I mattered, like I was the only one in the room. Small gestures—offering me his jacket, saving me a seat, sharing a joke meant only for me—felt like secrets that belonged to us alone.
Everyone around us noticed. They teased, they assumed, and I didn't deny it. I let myself believe it too—that what we had was something real, just waiting for the right moment to be named.
It was a humid afternoon when my friend leaned across the desk, her eyes glinting with mischief, her voice low and playful."So… what's going on between you and Mark?"
I blinked, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"
She smirked knowingly. "Don't play dumb. Everyone sees it. You and him—always together, always laughing. He hasn't asked you yet, has he?"
My cheeks burned. I looked away, pretending to shuffle my notes, my heart pounding in my chest. "If you're so curious, then ask him yourself."
She laughed, light and careless, and I thought nothing more of it. Not until later that night, when she found me outside the library, her tone no longer playful but strangely hesitant.
"I… I asked Mark," she said quietly.
My throat went dry. "And?" My voice betrayed me, too eager, too hopeful.
She wouldn't meet my eyes. "He said Kim is his girlfriend now."
The words hit like a crash I never saw coming, hollowing out my chest. "What?"
"They're… together now."
I stared at her, waiting for the punchline that never came. My lips parted, but no words followed—just a weak laugh that cracked and died in my throat. "So all this time, he…"
She bit her lip, uncomfortable, like she was sorry for being the one to tell me. "I thought you knew. Everyone thought you knew."
By nightfall, I was the university's newest story. The delusional girl who pretended to be in a relationship that never existed.
Laughter in the hallways. Whispers behind hands. Pity in the glances thrown my way. My name tangled with his in ways that left me raw and defenseless.
Did you hear? She really thought she was with him.Delusional.Pathetic.
I kept my head down, clutching my books like a shield as I moved through the corridors. But their laughter followed me everywhere, seeping into my skin, gnawing at the edges of my silence.
And in the quiet corners of my heart, a cruel question grew louder and louder:
Did I imagine it all?
Or did he ever really see me at all?
--
The old house we rented always felt alive at night. With twenty of us crammed into its creaking walls, there was never a shortage of noise—laughter spilling from rooms, footsteps echoing on the wooden stairs, music drifting through the halls.
That evening, the balcony was crowded, voices tangled with the smell of cheap liquor and roasted peanuts. Usually, I would've joined in—traded jokes, raised a glass, laughed too loudly. But that night, I sat quietly in the corner, my smile brittle, my thoughts circling the same mess named Mark.
Someone new strummed a guitar. The notes rose into the humid air, rough but lively, and the group erupted in cheers. I looked up for the first time.
He was one of the new boarders—Jacob. I'd seen him in passing in the hallways, but never like this. Never surrounded by light and sound, his voice carrying a melody that made the whole balcony sway.
"Sing another one!" someone shouted, slapping the table.
Jacob grinned, strummed harder, and launched into a song everyone seemed to know. They clapped along, voices blending into a chorus. Everyone except me.
I tried to disappear into the shadows, not in the mood to join. But when I glanced up, just for a second, his eyes found mine.
"Hey," Rolan called mid-song, his tone playful. "You're too quiet. Don't you know this one?"
Heat rushed to my face. "No," I muttered, shaking my head.
He stopped singing just long enough to flash a crooked smile. "Good. Then you can listen while the rest of us butcher it."
Laughter followed, and he sang back into the melody, the crowd roaring with delight.
The balcony buzzed with chatter and the clinking of bottles. Stories about summer vacations tumbled over each other. I sat a little apart, letting their laughter wash over me without stepping into it. My heart was still raw, but I tried to smile when my roommates nudged me forward.
"New ones, this is Hallie," one of them announced far too cheerfully. "She's not in the mood today, but don't be fooled—she talks a lot when she feels better."
A few chuckles went around the table. I wanted to protest, but before I could, she added, "Don't judge by how angelic she looks—she's the ruthless editor of our school paper. Second-year education student. If you need help with your research or reviews, she's your girl. Basically, we're all in her mercy."
The spotlight burned on me. I forced a smile. "It's not free," I said dryly.
The table erupted in laughter, even louder this time. Someone raised their glass in my direction. "Fair enough!"
And then I noticed him—Jacob—sitting with the guitar resting on his knee, watching me with a curious half-smile. Unlike the others, he didn't laugh too loudly, didn't add to the teasing. He just strummed a quiet chord, tilting his head as if measuring me against the picture my roommates had painted.
For a fleeting second, our eyes met, and I couldn't tell if he was amused or intrigued.I looked away first.
"Hey," a voice called from behind.
I turned, startled. It was Angela—my roommate. She leaned casually against the wall, hands shoved in her pockets, eyes sharp but unreadable.
"Your face is telling me you're walking around like you're carrying the whole campus on your back," she said.
I frowned. "Excuse me?"
She shrugged. "I'm just saying. People talk too much. Stop listening to them."
My throat tightened. Of course she'd heard. Everyone had. "Easy for you to say," I muttered, hugging my folder closer. "You're not the one they're laughing at."
She tilted her head, studying me. "No. But I know what it's like when people decide they already know your story. Doesn't matter what's true—they just want something to talk about."
Her words lingered, heavier than I expected. I searched her face for mockery, but there was none. Only blunt honesty, rough around the edges but real.
The night ended in a blur, and I couldn't even recall if Jacob had spoken to me at all. To me, it was just another evening swallowed by noise and laughter I couldn't join.
But years later, he would tell me how he couldn't stop staring at me that night—while I sat there, broken in ways I thought no one noticed.
And I never looked back.