The Edge Of Us

GARRETT MERCER

The hum of my Yamaha R3 was more than just sound—it was armor. Every rev of the engine was a warning shot, every sleek inch of matte black and custom trim a signal to stay out of my lane. I didn’t ride for attention, but I got it anyway. Heads turned as I sped past the main gate, the roar echoing off stone walls and glass windows. I knew the look on their faces: awe, maybe envy, a little fear. I didn’t mind. I preferred distance.

I parked just outside Mercer Hall, the name etched across the entrance in bold steel lettering—my father’s legacy. His money built half this place, and the rest of the students knew it. Untouchable. That’s what they called me. Rich, smart, a little too cold, and very much off-limits. And I liked it that way.

The California sun hit just right, casting a glow over my skin and shadows across my eyes. I was tall, built from years of morning gym routines I never skipped, and every inch of me said I wasn’t someone to mess with. Broody, they called me. Harsh. Whatever. It kept people out of my face.

Cybersecurity major, three and a half years deep and almost done. My thesis was 80% complete, and with the job offer from one of California’s biggest game dev companies already in the bag, I could almost taste freedom. I’d spent two years taking psych, thanks to my mother, who thought it would “humanize” me. Joke’s on her. If anything, it just taught me how to hide my emotions better.

I grabbed my bag from the locker and slung it over my shoulder. Zack and Jules were already waiting by the railing near the east wing, tossing insults at each other between bites of breakfast bars. I walked up, nodding, letting a small smirk pull at the corner of my mouth.

“Look who decided to grace us with his royal presence,” Jules teased.

“Yeah, did the leather jacket get its own invitation?” Zack added.

“Yours still smells like mildew,” I replied dryly. Laughter followed. The easy kind. I didn’t mind these moments. They didn’t expect more than I gave.

No drama. No complications. That was the plan.

And then she happened.

I took a step toward the lecture hall and felt it—impact, warmth, then wetness spreading across my chest. Coffee. Scalding. My jacket soaked. My branded leather jacket.

What the—

I looked down and then up.

She was small. Petite. A swirl of black hair falling past her shoulders like ink spilled down her back. Her face was pale with shock, glowing in the morning light, and her hands trembled as the half-crumpled paper cup slipped further in her grip. Her eyes met mine—big, dark, and screaming a thousand silent apologies.

“I—I’m so sorry!” she said in a rush, voice barely above a whisper.

I stared at her, the fury bubbling under my skin like a ticking bomb. “Are you blind?” I snapped. “Do you not know how to walk in a straight line?”

She recoiled. Fear flickered in her gaze, but so did something else. Something... wounded. Deep. Her lips moved, but nothing came out. Just the sound of my friends laughing behind me.

“Smooth move, coffee gremlin,” Jules snorted.

Zack chimed in with something crueler, but I didn’t catch it. I wasn’t listening anymore. My eyes were locked on her. On the way her shoulders curled in, as if she was used to being yelled at. On the way her hand shook, the skin reddening where the coffee had burned her and she hadn’t even reacted to it. Not once.

Why wasn’t she reacting?

The guilt hit me before I could stop it.

She looked lost—like she’d been somewhere else entirely before slamming into me. Her eyes were full of regret, but also... pain. Not just from the accident. From something else. Something old. Familiar.

And I hated it. I hated that I saw it. That I recognized it. That I felt it too.

I should’ve walked away. Should’ve let the sarcasm fly and kept my distance. But something in me—something small and uninvited—tightened. And for the first time in a long time, I felt it.

Guilt.

And I hated her for making me feel it.

I let out a scoff. Low. Dismissive. It was the only thing I could do that wouldn’t betray what was twisting in my chest.

The jacket clung to my skin, warm and sticky with coffee, the sharp scent rising up like a punishment. I shrugged it off in one motion and slung it over my shoulder, ignoring the way it dripped onto the pavement. My eyes didn’t stay on her—not for long. I walked past without another word, without looking back.

She stood there, frozen. Like a statue carved from regret.

Behind me, the guys were still laughing.

“Guess caffeine makes you clumsy,” Zack muttered.

“Should’ve brought a mop, not a cup,” Jules added, louder.

I didn’t join in.

My feet moved, carrying me toward class, but my head wasn’t in it anymore. I tried to focus on the steps, the rhythm of my boots hitting concrete, but all I could feel was the image of her—burned into my brain like a ghost.

Before rounding the corner, I glanced back. Just once.

She hadn’t moved far. Her back was to me now, but I saw her lift her hand—red, scalded, trembling. She blew on it gently, wincing as the pain finally caught up to her. She was walking fast, nearly tripping over her own feet to get away, but still trying to hold it together.

She didn’t even look at me.

And I didn’t know her name. But God, I knew I’d remember that face. Those eyes. That silent scream under her skin.

She was haunting me already.

By the time we got to class, the stench of burnt coffee had faded, but the memory hadn’t. Not even close. I sat down near the back, where I always did—where the noise died down and I could zone out if I wanted to. Jules took the seat beside me, talking like she didn’t just finish dragging some stranger for sport a few minutes ago.

“Hey,” she said, nudging Zack with her elbow, “you know that girl? The one who crashed into Garrett?”

Zack raised an eyebrow. “The coffee assassin?”

I didn’t react. Kept my eyes on the front of the room.

Jules snorted. “Yeah, her. Izara, I think. Heard her name once. Apparently, she’s the only one in this whole damn place who got in on that new scholarship system. Like, literally the first.”

“Scholarship?” Zack repeated, smirking. “That explains the fashion disaster.”

“She was interviewed by some senior professor, I think Malik or something,” Jules continued, pulling out her laptop like she wasn’t slowly picking someone apart word by word. “He said she was good enough to roll in without taking the same entrance exams.”

I felt my jaw clench. I didn’t know why. It’s not like I cared.

“She didn’t even take the test?” Zack laughed. “What kind of charity case—”

Jules rolled her eyes. “It pissed a lot of lecturers off, too. Some of them wanted her to take the tests like everyone else. But she’s still here, so I guess that professor fought for her or something. Poor thing.”

I didn’t look at them, but I could feel the irritation prickling under my skin. Something about the way she said “poor thing” made my fingers twitch.

“She works two jobs,” Jules went on, a little too gleefully, “probably just to afford rent and food. I think one’s at that hipster cafe downtown, Hansig something. And someone said she doesn’t even have family listed. Like, no address to send letters to. Nothing. No emergency contacts.”

Zack let out a low whistle. “No parents? Damn.”

“Yeah,” Jules shrugged, “she’s always looked like a lost cause anyway.”

That did it.

I shifted in my seat, eyes narrowing before I could stop myself. Why the hell did it matter? Why did this—any of this—stick in my head?

I didn’t care about background stories. I didn’t care about pity cases or gossip. I wasn’t the guy who gave a damn about someone else’s scars. And yet...

Her eyes flashed back in my mind. That look—not just afraid, but familiar. Like a mirror I hadn’t meant to stand in front of.

Jules kept talking, but her voice turned to static.

I should’ve shut her down. Should’ve said something.

But all I did was sit there, jaw tight, heart twisting in a way I couldn’t explain.

And for the first time in years, I wasn’t just bothered.

I was curious.

And that scared me more than I wanted to admit.

By lunch time, I was half a mess.

The cafeteria buzzed around me—loud, bright, filled with the kind of noise I usually tuned out without effort. But today, everything grated. The chairs scraping, the laughter, even the clack of Jules’ fake nails tapping on her phone screen made my head throb.

My laptop was open in front of me, some half-read article glowing on the screen, the words bleeding into each other without meaning. I wasn’t reading it. I hadn’t read a single thing since I opened it twenty minutes ago.

All I could think about were those eyes. Her eyes.

Dark brown. Deep. Like they held too many stories and not enough pages to write them on. They haunted me—not because they were beautiful, but because they looked like something I’d spent years trying to bury.

I clenched my jaw, frustration building like a pressure cooker inside me. It wasn’t just irritation anymore. It was anger. At myself. At her. At how the hell one accidental collision could keep my brain this tangled.

Anger was useless. It never fixed anything. I’d learned that a long time ago. But here it was again, curling in my chest like a storm.

“I’m heading out,” I said suddenly, standing up before anyone could ask.

“Dude, we’re getting food in a bit—” Jules started, but I didn’t respond.

I grabbed my backpack, threw on the leather jacket—still stained with a faint trace of coffee—and walked out.

The Yamaha growled beneath me as I tore off campus. My parents’ condo wasn’t far, maybe a ten-minute ride. I could’ve gone straight there. Locked the door, drowned in code or music or something that made sense. But I didn’t.

I took a detour.

A quiet road, barely lit in places, took me a little further out until I pulled into the lot of a mid-size Korean place I’d passed a dozen times but never stepped foot in.

Hansig.

The place was packed. The windows gave it away—people sitting at close-knit tables, chopsticks flying, steam rising from hot dishes, laughter and comfort alive in the air.

And there she was.

I saw her before I even killed the engine.

Ponytail swaying, pink apron snug around an oversized sweater, tray balanced with ridiculous grace in her hands. She moved like she didn’t feel the weight of anything. Her steps quick but never frantic. Her smile...

That smile stopped me cold.

Not the polite, hollow kind you give when you’re forced to.

This one was real.

Or at least, it looked real. Lit up her whole face. Her lips moved as she chatted with customers, her laughter soft and invisible through the glass, but I could feel it. I saw her hold the door for a family as they walked in, still smiling, still glowing.

There was no fear in her eyes now. No tremble in her hand. No trace of the girl from this morning who looked like she was shrinking into herself.

And something about that made my chest tighten.

I stared longer than I should’ve. Wondering if that smile reached her eyes. Wondering if she gave that same smile to herself in the mirror. Wondering—God help me—what it’d look like if she turned it on me.

I hated that I wondered.

I was just about to tell myself to leave—again—when she turned.

Her head snapped toward the window.

And even through the glass, even through my visor, it felt like she saw me.

Right through the helmet. Right into my eyes.

My heart kicked hard.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath, jerking the key in the ignition and revving the bike to life again.

I didn’t know what I was doing there. I didn’t know what I wanted.

But I sure as hell knew I wasn’t ready for her to see it in my eyes.

The tires screeched against the asphalt as I sped out of the lot, my jaw clenched so tight it ached. I needed to get home. Back to silence. Back to logic. Back to something—anything—that made sense.

Because right now?

She didn’t.

And that pissed me off more than anything.

IZARA CHOI

The cold morning air still clung to my clothes as I rushed out of the campus yard, the last of my dignity folded neatly into the trash bin alongside a crumpled, coffee-soaked paper cup. I didn’t have time to process what had just happened. I didn’t have time for anything.

The bus pulled up just as I reached the gate, tires hissing against wet pavement. I jogged the last few meters, ignoring the burn in my legs and the dull sting on my hand. No breakfast. No peace. Just another day.

I sank into the window seat, breath catching in my throat as I pressed my forehead to the cool glass. My reflection stared back at me—messy hair, flushed cheeks, and eyes still wide from the morning’s chaos. I exhaled slowly, silently willing the tears not to fall. Not here. Not now.

I hadn’t even needed to be on campus today. No classes. Just a promise. I’d told Professor Malik I’d hand him my revised thesis by this morning, and I meant it. He was the only one who treated me like more than just a scholarship case. So I made the trip. I made the effort. And now, I was paying for it.

After submitting the paper to his office, I had just enough time to swing by the campus café. A piece of toast and a coffee—that was the plan. The toast made it. The coffee? Not so lucky.

I looked down at my hand. The skin along the edge of my palm was red, shiny where the heat had kissed it. It still tingled, like a reminder that I didn’t belong in places like that. Like I wasn’t allowed to walk through those halls without the universe tripping me up, literally.

But the pain in my hand wasn’t the worst part.

It was them. Their voices. The laughter. The judgment. The mockery that followed me long after I’d run.

And him.

Garrett Mercer.

Of course it had to be him.

The golden boy. The untouchable. The rich, beautiful storm you avoided at all costs. I’d seen him around, the guy who never looked twice at anyone who didn’t already matter. The one with a name carved into a building and the kind of aura that said don’t even try.

And I hadn’t tried. Until fate shoved me—literally—into his path.

I still felt the heat of his glare. The way his blue eyes sliced through me like glass. Cold one second. Then searching. Like he saw something in me he wasn’t expecting—and didn’t like.

I winced at the memory. How my hand trembled. How my voice barely worked. How the laughter behind him echoed louder than his own voice ever did.

God, that jacket probably cost more than I make in a year. And I’d just... splashed it like an idiot.

But he hadn’t told me to pay for it. He hadn’t even yelled as much as I expected. Just... stared.

And I hated that his stare lingered. That I could still feel it.

I shook my head, willing the memory away. I had bigger things to worry about. My twelve-hour shift at Hansig Café wasn’t going to work itself. Rent wouldn’t wait. Life didn’t care if I spilled a cup of coffee on a campus prince.

I straightened up, pulling the strap of my bag tighter against my shoulder as the bus slowed to my stop. My hand still burned, but I ignored it. The world didn’t stop for pain—not the physical kind, not the kind that lives under your skin.

This was survival.

And I wasn’t going to let anyone, not even Garrett Mercer, rattle me out of it.

By the time the late sun dipped behind the buildings and turned the sky into melted gold and ash, I’d already told myself my usual line at least a hundred times:

“Be kind. Everyone’s fighting a different battle.”

It wasn’t just some Pinterest quote to me—it was survival. My armor. My compass. My anchor.

So I smiled when my body ached. I asked if anyone needed anything else even when I was seconds away from crumpling. I made sure to be polite, even to the ones who threw crumpled napkins or gave a look that told me I wasn’t worth their time. And when they rolled their eyes or snapped their fingers at me, I still said, “Sure thing,” and “Enjoy your meal,” like I meant it.

Because if I didn’t, I’d break.

The thin bandage around my hand pulsed faintly beneath the heat of the kitchen, but I kept moving. The sting of the coffee burn still reminded me of this morning—of him—but I didn’t have the luxury to stop and replay any of it. Not when there were dishes to clear, orders to take, smiles to hand out like spare change.

The ache at the base of my skull spread slowly, growing heavier with every hour. The heels of my feet throbbed so bad I imagined them bruising in the shape of every step I’d taken. But I ignored it. Like always.

Almost 9 PM. I could see the end of the day just barely ahead. The last hour always felt like the longest.

I was just wiping down a table when the hair on the back of my neck rose.

That strange, prickling feeling—like someone breathing on my spine.

I looked up slowly, my eyes flicking toward the tall front windows of the café.

And I saw him.

A biker. Sitting on a sleek motorcycle just a few feet from the front. Helmet on. Dark visor covering his face. But even from that distance, I could feel the weight of his gaze. Like he was staring right at me.

My body froze.

I didn’t move. Just stood there, cloth still in hand, heart climbing higher in my chest with each beat. I didn’t know why, but something about it rattled me. Like I was being... watched. Not glanced at. Not casually observed.

Watched.

Then, as quickly as he appeared, he bent slightly, started the engine, and drove off.

Gone.

I exhaled shakily. It could’ve been anyone. Some guy lost in thought. Or waiting for someone. Maybe it wasn’t even me he was looking at. I scolded myself for being paranoid.

Shaking my head, I finished my last few tasks, took out the trash behind the building, and slung my bag over my shoulder.

The cool night air kissed my skin, bringing a little clarity. I breathed it in, letting it chase away some of the exhaustion pooling in my bones. My legs felt like lead as I made my way down the quiet street toward the nearest bus stop.

This part of the night always made me uneasy—the way the world fell a bit too quiet, like it was holding its breath. There weren’t many cars this late. Just the occasional one humming by, headlights carving shadows onto the pavement.

I said a small prayer as always: let the bus come soon, let the cars be kind, let tonight be uneventful.

And just as if someone heard me, the bus came five minutes later, screeching slightly as it pulled to a stop. I climbed aboard, grateful beyond words, and sank into a window seat.

What I didn’t see... was the figure standing in the shadows behind a thick tree trunk across the street.

Eyes bloodshot. Smiling—but not warmly.

Watching me.

Satisfied.

His gaze clung to me like smoke, not missing a single movement. Even beneath my oversized sweater, his eyes devoured the lines of my figure. He leaned against the tree slightly, taking in every second I stood alone.

He imagined my scent—soft, floral—rising off me, even after a 12-hour shift.

He grinned.

The wheels in his mind turned slowly.

And his smile widened.