The dormitory was quiet that night, save for the faint patter of rain against the windowpane. The campus had already slipped into slumber, the corridors empty, the laughter of students fading into distant echoes. Inside his small room, Eliot sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the object resting on his palm: a key.
It wasn't just any key. A gift that he often tucked away in his drawer most of the time, but tonight, for a reason he couldn't quite understand, he had taken it out again.
He turned it over slowly between his fingers, letting the dim light from his desk lamp reflect off the metal. The ridges felt familiar yet mysterious, like they carried a weight beyond their size. "What am I supposed to do with you?" he murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper.
He sighed and leaned back against the headboard, pressing the cold metal against his chest for a moment. Sometimes, he wondered if the key was less about what it opened and more about what it represented: memory, responsibility, maybe even regret.
As he stared blankly at the ceiling, his mind wandered, unexpectedly, to an image he had not invited.
The man from earlier.
The fleeting moment under the crying sky, when he had sought shelter in that shed. Eliot remembered looking up, scanning the façade of the Fine Arts building almost absently. And then—there he was.
A figure on the second floor, leaning on the railing. Dark hair, steady posture. Even from a distance blurred by rain, Eliot had caught a glimpse of something... striking. He didn't know what it was, the eyes maybe? Or the way the man held himself as if the rain was his companion. As if even the rain agreed to make his pleasing presence more visible even in the middle of the downpour.
He had only looked for a second, maybe less, before he tore his gaze away. He didn't know why either. Perhaps it was instinct. Perhaps it was fear of being caught staring. Or maybe it was something he wasn't ready to admit... or maybe, he's just overthinking. Maybe, it was nothing. His eyes just accidentally passed over him.
Now, lying in his dorm bed, that image resurfaced with surprising clarity. Why him? Why now? He let out a soft, incredulous laugh. "I have so much on my mind, why is that brief glance earlier also butting in?" He just shook his head. He couldn't tell anymore if he was going crazy or what.
Before he could think further, his phone buzzed on the desk. The vibration broke through the silence, startling him. He glanced at the screen: Prof. Villanueva.
He hesitated for a moment, it was late, almost 10:30 p.m. But ignoring a professor's call wasn't an option.
"Hello, Sir?" Eliot answered, his voice polite but tinged with surprise. Who wouldn't be surprised if one of the respected professors in your department called at ten o'clock at night. You couldn't help but wonder if you had done something wrong.
"Eliot, I apologize for calling so late," came the warm, slightly tired voice of Professor Villanueva. "But I needed to talk to you about something. It's about the interdepartmental collaboration project."
Eliot sat up straighter, he was even agape because of what he heard. Not to be overly dramatic, but... it was kind of like that."Collaboration project?"
"Yes," the professor continued. "This semester, our Literature department has been paired with the Photography majors. The idea is to create a joint work, photos with literature pieces. Each department will send one representative, and after much consideration, I want you to represent our department."
Eliot blinked, unsure if he had heard right. "Me, sir? Me?" He wasn't deaf, but it was like... the moment he heard it, he felt dazed.
"Yes, you. Your writing has always stood out, Eliot. It has depth... it has emotion... it has soul. And I believe it would complement the artistry of the Photography majors. This isn't just a grade, it's an opportunity. The works will be exhibited at the end of the term. Publicly."
Eliot rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a knot of tension form. He had joined projects before, but this sounded... bigger. And heavier.
"Sir, I'm honored," he said slowly. "But... I'm not sure. I mean... what if I'm not the right person? Maybe there's someone more deserving." He couldn't help but be preempted by fear. He didn't want to be bullied again just because others noticed that their professors were giving him too much attention.
Professor Villanueva chuckled softly. "That's humility talking. But believe me, you are the right person. You're the one I trust for this." He said, full of confidence.
Eliot fell silent. His eyes drifted back to the key lying on his blanket, then, unbidden, to the memory of the man at the Photography Building. A strange shiver passed through him, as if fate was trying to weave connections he wasn't prepared for.
Still, doubt tugged at him. "Sir, it's... kinda late tonight. Can I think about it first? I promise I'll give you my answer tomorrow morning." He wasn't being excessive, was he? It was just hard to say yes now and then not be sure if he would push through or not.
There was a brief pause on the line, then the professor's voice softened. "Of course. Take your time. I just wanted to inform you ahead. Rest well, Eliot. I'll expect your decision tomorrow."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
He was grateful that his professor didn't pressure him, that he understood his situation. Thank goodness.
The call ended, leaving behind only the sound of rain tapping against the glass. Eliot set his phone down and picked up the key again, twirling it absentmindedly.
The offer lingered heavily in his mind, but so did the image of the boy on the second floor. He shook his head, half-annoyed at himself. What does he have to do with this? And yet, the thought refused to leave.
He just closed his eyes tightly. His head ached. This is the difficulty with people who are naturally overthinkers; simple things for others become big deals for them... for us...
As the rain whispered outside, Eliot lay back down, the key clutched in his hand, torn between choices he hadn't expected and faces he couldn't forget, even though he had only stared at him for a brief moment.
Tomorrow, he promised himself, he'd decide.
But tonight, he let the rain carry his questions away.
The morning after the phone call, Eliot stood by his dorm window, watching the drizzle trickle down the glass. The key was resting on the table, untouched, as if silently reminding him of last night's indecision. But unlike the key, the other matter, his professor's offer, was one he couldn't keep avoiding. This is something he needed to face.
Not just to show professionalism, but also to prove to himself that... he could do it. That he wasn't a loser.
He exhaled heavily and whispered to himself, "Fine... let's do this."
By the time he told Professor Villanueva about his decision, the older man's voice was brimming with joy. "I knew you'd say yes, Eliot! You'll thank yourself later. Trust me." His voice was full of delight.
Eliot just offered a hesitant smile. He thinks that... he made the right decision, because of how happy his professor was.
Eliot only managed a small smile. His professor's enthusiasm was contagious, but deep down, he still carried the weight of uncertainty. He wasn't used to being the representative of the entire department. It wasn't just writing anymore, it was pressure, and probably... expectation.
But what choice did he have? Sometimes, responsibility found you before you felt ready. Not to put you in a situation where your life will be doubtful. But to strengthen you and to overcome what you fear.
That afternoon, he found himself in a small coffee shop just outside campus. It was the kind of place professors favored, quiet, with soft jazz playing in the background and the faint scent of roasted beans mixing with rain-soaked air.
Professor Villanueva sat across from him, his cup of cappuccino already half-empty, eyes sparkling behind his glasses. "Just relax, Eliot. Don't look so tense. This is a meeting, not a thesis defense." His professor said jokingly, clearly trying to put him at ease.
Eliot chuckled nervously, stirring the coffee in front of him. He's not even planning to drink it, he didn't want to get palpitations. "I'm just... not sure how this will go, Sir. I don't even know my partner yet."He said honestly. He was also wondering if he'd get along with them. He hoped so, because if not... it would be a big problem, and... he might just back out if that happened.
"That's the beauty of it," Prof. Villanueva replied. "Collaboration is about discovery. About finding common ground where you least expect it."
Eliot only nodded. Outside, the rain had lightened, just enough to blur the world behind the windows. A few students passed by with umbrellas, laughing at the weather's fickleness. Inside, the warmth of the café felt both comforting and stifling.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Eliot shifted restlessly in his seat, glancing at the door every time it opened, only to see strangers walk in.
"It's taking a long time," he muttered under his breath, trying not to sound it out loudly. It would be embarrassing if his professor heard him. He might think he was rushing.
Prof. Villanueva only smiled knowingly. "Good things are worth the wait."
Eliot pressed his lips together tightly, because how could he not... Professor Villanueva's hearing was apparently very sharp.
Eliot smiled, a half-baked smile just to hide the embarrassment he was feeling. He actually wanted to smack himself. He really lacked professionalism in that situation.
He tried to distract himself by sketching words into his notebook, fragments of lines that might one day become poetry. Still, his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the image of the man he'd glimpsed yesterday, the one on the second floor of the Fine Arts Building. He was starting to get annoyed. He just kept popping into his mind.
That single moment refused to leave him. Why am I even thinking about him? he scolded himself. He's probably just another student, another face I'll never see again.
And then...
The bell above the café door chimed.
Eliot barely looked up at first, expecting another random customer. But when his eyes lifted, his breath caught.
An older man, wearing a neat coat, stepped in first, clearly a professor. But it was the one who followed behind that made Eliot's heart stumble.
A tall figure, camera slung around his neck. Sharp yet quiet presence. Messy dark hair that looked slightly damp from the rain.
The same man.
The same man he had seen leaning on the second-floor railing yesterday, watching the rain.
For a moment, Eliot's mind went blank. His pen slipped from his fingers, landing soundlessly on the notebook. His eyes widened ever so slightly, though he quickly forced himself to look away. What are the chances?
"Ah, Professor Delgado!" Villanueva stood up warmly, greeting the older man with a firm handshake. "Thank you for meeting us despite the weather."
"Not at all," Professor Delgado replied, his voice deep and genial. "Always a pleasure to work with the Literature department. And this here," he gestured to the young man beside him "is Kaius, our representative from Photography."
Eliot's pulse quickened at the sound of the name. He dared another glance, too brief, too quick, and found Kaius' eyes flicking in his direction. Just for a second. Then the boy looked away, composed, sliding into the chair across from him.
"Professor Villanueva, this is Kaius," Professor Delgado continued. "One of my best students. He has an eye for detail and a heart for storytelling through his captured photos. I believe he'll make a strong collaborator."
Professor Villanueva smiled, clearly pleased. "Perfect. And this," he turned proudly to Eliot, "is Eliot. One of our most promising young writers. His words have soul, raw, genuine. I couldn't think of anyone better to represent Literature. I just hope the two of them get along."
The two professors exchanged pleasantries, but Eliot barely heard them. His focus was on keeping his face neutral, and on hiding the storm of realization inside him.
Kaius.
So that was his name.
The stranger in the rain now had a face, a voice, a seat at the same table. Most importantly, his partner for this interdepartmental collaboration.
Eliot clasped his hands together under the table, squeezing lightly as if to ground himself. He wasn't sure what unsettled him more, the coincidence of glancing at him, or the fact that his chest felt tight just sitting across from him.
"So," Professor Delgado said after ordering his coffee, "the project will officially begin next week. The two of you will be working closely, deciding on a theme, creating pieces that complement one another. It will require trust, patience, and of course, creativity."
Professor Villanueva nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly. We'll serve as your guides, but this project is yours to shape. Think of it as a conversation between image and word."
Kaius finally spoke, his voice calm, low, yet carrying a quiet weight. "Understood, Sir's."
The sound of his voice sent a ripple through Eliot, though he masked it with a sip of his coffee. Darn it, he hadn't planned to drink coffee, but he drank it unexpectedly. He didn't know why, but the syllables seemed to linger longer than they should, threading themselves into the rhythm of the rain outside.
"Eliot?" Professor Villanueva prompted gently.
He blinked, realizing the professors were waiting for his response. "Ah, yes. Of course, sir. I'll... do my best."
The professors continued discussing logistics, dates, and possible venues for the exhibit. Eliot listened half-heartedly, jotting notes here and there, but part of his mind drifted elsewhere—toward the irony of fate, the strangeness of how one fleeting glance in the rain had led to this moment.
As the professors wrapped up their discussion, the table fell into a brief silence, punctuated only by the light rain outside. Then out of the sudden, Kaius shifted slightly in his seat, turning toward Eliot.
He extended his hand, steady and deliberate.
"Kaius Zyran Reyes," he said, his tone even but not cold.
Eliot blinked, then let out the faintest breath before sliding his hand into Kaius'. His movements were smooth, calculated, nonchalant, as if handshakes were nothing but routine.
"Eliot," he replied simply, his voice betraying none of the storm clawing at his chest.
But inside, his pulse hammered wildly. His fingers trembled faintly against Kaius' palm, and it took every ounce of control not to pull away too quickly. He wanted to maintain his composure intact.
On the surface, he looked calm. Inside, he was unraveling.
Kaius' grip was firm but not overbearing. He gave a small nod, eyes steady on Eliot.
"Nice meeting you, partner," he said.
And the moment that word, partner, slipped from his lips, Eliot felt his heartbeat stumble, then race faster than it should. He forced himself to keep his expression neutral, acting as if it was nothing, but inside, the word echoed louder than the rain outside.
Partner.
Why did it suddenly feel heavier than it should?