Liya sat on the campus lawn with her legs folded neatly to one side, fingers absently tracing the rim of her water bottle.
The sun had begun its descent, washing the sky in muted peach and gold, but her attention was fixed elsewhere—on the path where Zen had disappeared moments ago.
She had watched him walk away.
Laughing at something Alex said.
Sunlight catching the edges of his hair.
Movement bright, unguarded, alive.
Zen always seemed to glow.
Not metaphorically.
Not romantically.
Just… naturally.
As if the world itself enjoyed paying attention to him.
Liya pressed her lips together, unsettled by the quiet flutter beneath her ribs.
It wasn't love.
She was certain of that.
Love required intention. Choice. Time.
This was none of those things.
And yet—
Whenever she looked at Zen, something old stirred inside her. A recognition without memory. A familiarity with no origin.
As if she had known him in another context entirely.
The thought was absurd.
Still, it refused to leave.
The Pull She Couldn't Explain
She opened her notebook, forcing her gaze onto neatly written notes that immediately blurred.
Her mind drifted—uninvited—back to the audition waiting hall.
Zen, bouncing his knee slightly while pretending not to be nervous.
Zen, cracking jokes that made others laugh but seemed designed to keep himself steady.
Zen, sitting beside her, close enough that she could hear his breathing slow as he focused.
She remembered the moment he had glanced at her and asked quietly,
"You good?"
Two words.
Careless.
And yet something about them had settled her in a way she hadn't expected.
Not because he was kind.
But because the sound of his voice felt… familiar.
As if she had heard it before—
—or wished she had.
Liya shut the notebook.
"Get a grip," she murmured under her breath. "You're reading too much into this."
She wasn't prone to imagination. She didn't romanticize strangers or invent connections where none existed.
Most people passed through her life like distant figures—visible, but untouchable.
Zen wasn't like that.
He felt close in a way that had nothing to do with proximity.
Like a word she almost remembered.
A Quiet Conflict
Her phone vibrated.
She glanced at the screen.
Father:Dinner at home tonight. Don't be late. We need to discuss your internship placements.
Liya exhaled slowly.
Her father never spoke in uncertainty.
Life, to him, was a sequence of decisions meant to secure stability—career paths, alliances, outcomes that could be predicted and controlled.
There was no space for deviation.
Certainly no space for someone like Zen.
An aspiring actor.
Unpolished.
Unplanned.
Someone who joked about blueberries while waiting for auditions.
She rose to her feet, brushing grass from her skirt.
Her father would want her to choose someone dependable.
Someone whose future could be mapped.
Someone who fit seamlessly into the shape her life was expected to take.
Zen didn't fit.
Not anywhere.
And maybe that was why he lingered in her thoughts.
A Decision She Doesn't Realize She's Making
Liya paused before leaving the lawn, glancing once more toward the path Zen had taken.
The warmth in her chest hadn't faded.
It wasn't loud.
It didn't demand anything.
It simply existed—steady and patient, like a quiet reminder.
I've seen that light before.
The thought surfaced without permission.
As she finally turned away, her heartbeat quickened slightly.
Not because she had made a choice.
Not because she wanted something she shouldn't.
But because—for the first time in a long while—
someone had made her feel awake.
She didn't know whether that was a gift or a warning.
She only knew one thing with certainty:
This feeling—this quiet pull toward Zen—wasn't going anywhere.
And she wasn't ready to understand it.
Not yet.