It’s warm, not hot, warm. The air was humid, enough to make you want to take your hoodie and strip to your gym bra but not enough to really expose yourself like that in a college class.

  Two rows from the front, center of class. Same place I sent in every class I can, makes it identical and consistent, just how I like it. I was already halfway through typing the syllabus notes before the professor even spoke. Not out of excitement. Just habit. Muscle memory. Focus is easier than silence.

  9:29 am, Class starts in a minute. I look away for a moment and hear stumbling, a squeak of a desk chair scratching the wooden floorboards and a deep guttural exhale. It sounded like someone almost died running across campus.

  I didn’t look right away. You don’t make eye contact with chaos first thing in the morning. The energy coming from behind me was… erratic. Disorganized. The kind of energy that smelled like forgotten deodorant and late-night caffeine.

  Something about it felt, familiar, almost calming actually, which is entirely out of the ordinary. I leaned back a bit and saw a glimpse of him in the glossy tint of my laptop.

  Messy red hair

  Red hoodie to match

  Sitting there, embarrassed, trying to sink into the chair

  Eyes wide like he barely woke up and was just trying to get through his class

  Something about him was so familiar, like I knew him, I’ve met this guy before. Regardless, doesn’t matter, he’s pulling my attention away from class.

  The class dragged. The professor talked about layering and interface navigation. I pretended to take notes. My mind was somewhere else. Orbiting behind me.

  I hadn’t thought about high school in a while. I tried running away, going to a higher level school to avoid the person I was, that cruel visceral hurtful version of myself. But today, for whatever reason, I couldn’t stop chewing on the end of my pen. A habit I broke years ago.

  And then my pencil rolled off the desk. Of course it did.

  I bent down to grab it, came back up, and caught him looking away so fast it almost gave me whiplash.

  Weird.

  I didn’t think much of it at the time. I had physics next, across campus in the Parnell STEM building. I packed up, slipped in my headphones, and hit shuffle.

  Something felt off, like a presence was watching me as I walked. It wasn’t odd for guys to glare, it was rude but after a while you figure out how to ignore it.

  But this presence felt close, too clo-

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I hit the ground, eating shit, the back of my foot completely out of my old basketball shoes.

  “Mother f—” I hissed as my messenger bag slipped off and my papers went flying like they were trying to escape the situation too.

  He panicked. Of course he did. “Here, let me—”

  Then he stepped on one of my handouts, lost his footing, and went full ragdoll on the concrete.

  I stared. Everyone stared.

  For half a second, I was frozen.

  Then I moved.

  I got up and held my hand out for him to grab

  pulled him up before he could melt into the pavement.

  He was lighter than I expected. Or maybe I was just stronger than I remembered.

  “You okay?” I asked, brushing hair from my face.

  “Uh… yeah. Are you?”

  He looked like he had never had a conversation before, I couldn’t tell if it was awkwardness or just the dazed feeling of eating shit and hitting the concrete.

  I gave him a once-over. The hoodie. The hair. The way he wouldn’t quite meet my eyes.

  “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  He blinked. “I’m in your graphics class. You were just in it—”

  “No I mean, I’ve definitely seen your hair before”

  He looked insulted, like it was some kind of curse I bestowed upon him. “It’s just red. Kinda greasy. Nothing special…”

  “No. Wait.” I looked closer. “I’ve definitely seen that hoodie. Did you go to JJ High?”

  His eyes widened. Like a deer in the headlights about to get mowed down by a big rig.

  “Oh, uh… yeah. I’m Harp—er, uh, Shawn. Shawn Harper.”

  He stuck his hand out like we were in a job interview. It was shaking.

  I took it gently, I’m pretty sure this was his first time talking to someone in a decade probably.

  “Wait, you’re that AP Comp Sci guy, right? The one who—”

  I cut myself off. Why was I even saying this? He probably doesn’t want to relive this.

  “The one who what? Failed every class sophomore year?”

  I winced. “Yeah… I heard you were hospitalized. I never knew what you looked like.”

  He looked shocked. And a little hurt. I regretted saying it instantly.

  I pulled out my phone. The new one I bought with my money working as a barista at the boba shop on campus.

  “Here!” I held my phone out. “Let me get your contact!”

  “What?” he asked, confused.

  I grabbed his phone, gently, and tapped them together. A little flash blinked across the screens.

  Contact Shared.

  “There,” I said. “I want to know about high school. I just… have to—”

  I glanced at my watch.

  Shit. I was late.

  “Sorry! I have to run.”

  I jogged off, forgetting the papers I had dropped. I didn’t remember them until twenty minutes into physics.

  I didn’t remember the smile on my face until I realized it was still there.