Ethan had always believed that love would come quietly, like rain falling on a Sunday morning—gentle, soothing, expected. He never imagined it would strike like a lightning bolt on a random Thursday afternoon in his second year at university.
He was sitting on the cracked wooden bench outside the campus library, headphones in, pretending to study but mostly scrolling through his phone. Then she appeared—Aria Njeri.
She wasn't supposed to be special. Just another student passing through. But Ethan noticed the way the late sun caught the strands of her hair, the way her laughter rang out like she carried a secret she dared the world to guess.
"Excuse me," she said, breaking his daze. "Is this seat taken?"
Ethan pulled out one earbud, fumbling. "Uh, no. No, it's free."
She slid onto the bench beside him, her perfume—sweet and slightly dangerous—filling his space. She wasn't shy. She glanced at his book. "Macroeconomics? Boring. You actually enjoy this stuff?"
Ethan chuckled nervously. "I'm…trying to."
"Well," she said, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, "you look more like a poet than an economist."
That startled him. "A poet? Why?"
Aria tilted her head, studying him with eyes that seemed to see too much. "Because you look like the kind of boy who feels everything too deeply. Am I wrong?"
Ethan swallowed. No one had ever said something like that to him. "Maybe," he admitted. "And you? What do you study?"
"Journalism. I like stories. And trouble." She smiled wickedly. "Mostly trouble."
Over the next hour, Ethan forgot about his textbook. They talked about everything—music, movies, their hometowns. He learned she grew up in Nairobi, raised by her aunt after her parents split up. She liked late-night drives, hated rules, and claimed she could never stay in one place for too long.
Every answer she gave was a red flag waving in neon, but Ethan didn't see them. He only saw her.
When she stood to leave, she handed him her phone. "Put your number in. Maybe I'll need an economist-poet one day."
He typed his name and number quickly, trying to keep his hands from shaking.
As she walked away, Ethan felt it—the spark. That dangerous, beautiful spark that whispered: She's going to change everything.
That night, his best friend Daniel noticed the goofy smile on Ethan's face.
"You met someone," Daniel accused, throwing a pillow at him in their shared dorm room.
Ethan grinned. "Maybe."
Daniel narrowed his eyes. "What's her name?"
"Aria."
"Aria," Daniel repeated, as if testing the sound. "Sounds like trouble."
"She's…different." Ethan shrugged, trying to play it cool.
Daniel leaned forward. "Different how?"
Ethan hesitated, searching for words. "Like she doesn't care what anyone thinks. Like she's already lived ten lives, and I just want to hear about all of them."
Daniel sighed. "Be careful, bro. Girls like that burn bright but fast. Don't get yourself scorched."
Ethan laughed it off, but deep down he already knew it was too late. He was already standing too close to the flame.
A week later, they had their first official "date," though Aria refused to call it that.
"It's not a date," she insisted, dragging him into a dimly lit club downtown. "It's just…fun."
The music pounded through the floor, bodies swaying around them. Aria thrived in the chaos, pulling Ethan into the crowd, her hands gripping his as though daring him to keep up.
"You don't dance much, do you?" she teased over the music.
"I do—badly," Ethan admitted, cheeks warm.
"Then dance badly with me." She laughed, twirling away from him.
For the first time in years, Ethan let go. He didn't care how clumsy he looked. All he cared about was Aria—her smile, her energy, the way she made the whole room feel like it revolved around her.
Later, they sat outside, sharing a plate of greasy fries from a street vendor.
"See?" she said, licking salt from her fingers. "You're not boring after all."
"And you're…chaotic," Ethan teased.
"Chaotic?" She laughed. "That's just another word for exciting."
He wanted to argue, but instead he found himself staring at her lips.
Aria caught him. "You're thinking about kissing me."
Ethan froze. "Am I that obvious?"
"Painfully." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "So what's stopping you?"
Ethan's heart raced. He kissed her, and the world tilted. It wasn't gentle or patient—it was hungry, like she wanted to swallow him whole. When she finally pulled back, she smirked.
"Careful, Ethan," she whispered. "I'm addictive."
And she was right.
That night, lying in bed, Ethan replayed every moment. The spark had become a flame, and he didn't care if he got burned.
He didn't see the warning signs—the way Aria flirted with the bartender, the texts she hid with a sly smile, the way she kept reminding him it wasn't a date.
All Ethan knew was this: Aria had walked into his life like a storm, and he wasn't about to let her go.
Even if she destroyed him.