MISSING PAGES (then, now and almosts )

It was orientation week.

My cousin and I had just wrapped up registration — those long lines, papers being shuffled like decks of cards, the loud hum of new students trying to find their way. We were tired, but something about being on that campus for the first time made everything feel charged, like life was about to start or shift in some irreversible way. So we decided to take a stroll.

And that’s when I saw him.

Not just any guy — him.

The one I’d been silently watching from behind a screen.

Facebook. TikTok. Instagram, too, if I’m being honest.

It wasn’t one of those “I’m obsessed with him” things. No. It was more subtle than that. I liked what he did — his videos, his photography, his whole energy. It was like art lived in his body. The way he dressed? Effortlessly cool. Different. Loud, but soft. Confident, but not cocky. He called his style kosher i think— I never really understood why, but it sounded like something only he could pull off.

I whispered to my cousin,

“Yo, that’s him… the guy I told you about.”

She didn’t know what the big deal was.

But for me, seeing someone in real life after only knowing them online feels like opening a book you’ve only ever seen the cover of.

And suddenly, everything inside me went still — like the calm before something deeper.

And when I saw him…

I wanted to meet him.

I wanted to talk to him.

I was excited — almost childishly so — like the first time you see someone from the internet step out of your screen and into your reality. I didn’t care if it was weird. I didn’t care that my cousin didn’t want to.

It was about me — my moment.

But then... the fear crept in.

What if he didn’t remember me?

What if I wasn’t even a blip on his radar?

What if he thought I was just some random stalker girl from Facebook who romanticized a few videos and was now trying to force something that wasn’t meant to happen?

But before I could decide whether or not I was going to see him. He vanished

Just like that...

Like smoke, like a breath.

Gone.

He had been standing there one moment, casually laughing, arms folded, looking effortlessly like someone who knew the world adored him.

And the next moment — poof — gone. Like he had never even been there.

But he left something behind.

Not something. Someone.

His friend.

A guy with messy dreadlocks, round glasses that made him look like a modern-day Bob Marley, and a vibe that said, "I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe."

My cousin turned to leave, thinking we’d lost the chance, but I wasn’t giving up that easily.

“I think we should go see that Bob Marley 2.0 guy,” I said casually, "You mean the rastafari?" She asked

“Yes, let’s pretend we’re here for the art.”

Because they’d set up something — a little makeshift exhibition with beautiful pieces laid out on the grass and tables like a secret world hidden in plain sight. Paintings, drawings, fabric art — a whole sensory escape. And maybe, just maybe, Asher would come back.

But as we walked closer...

Everything shifted.

Because the guy standing at the center of it all wasn’t just someone’s friend.

He was beautiful.

No — not cute. Not fine. Not hot.

Beautiful.

In a way that caught you off guard.

His skin glowed like he was kissed by every golden hour. His eyes? Sharp, but gentle. His posture? Like he knew he wasn’t from here — like he had come from some other universe just to stand in that very spot.

And suddenly...

I wasn’t thinking about Asher anymore.

I had come here for one person, with a simple plan.

But now there was this stranger — this talking walking piece of art — standing in the middle of a mini art exhibition. And he made everything feel brand new.

I walked up to this stranger with dreadlocks, and for a second, I forgot why I was there.

My reason had slipped through my fingers like sand.

Asher who?

He smiled before I even said a word, like he had already decided I belonged in the space he’d created.

“I’m Lucas,” he said.

He motioned toward the art displayed on the lawn.

And just like that, my whole mood changed.

His art was breathtaking. It wasn’t just pretty — it spoke. It whispered secrets in colors and brushed emotions into form. Each piece felt like it had lived a life before being placed there. And I… I was in awe.

Now listen — I can't draw.

Stick figures make me nervous. But I love art, I always have. And looking at his work made me feel like I could understand something deeper about the world.

Something spiritual.

Like maybe pain had a color. Maybe joy could be sketched. Maybe memories weren’t just things we carried, maybe they could be painted.

And I found myself falling… not for a person, but for the feeling. The atmosphere. The way art made me feel like a different version of myself.

So I did what any girl trying not to seem completely starstruck would do —

I acted cool.

I nodded, pretending to study the brush strokes and abstract titles. Pretending to be some art critic in her natural habitat.

But every time I glanced back at him — Lucas — he was already looking at me.

Not in a creepy way.

In that curious, focused, slightly amused way.

Like I was part of the art he had put out. Like I was being studied too.

There were other people around, sure.

My cousin had already slipped off to laugh with some other students, talking about one of the pieces that looked like a broken sunset.

But for me, the entire lawn melted away.

It was like the universe had put me and Lucas in a glass dome, where time slowed down and nothing else mattered.

I wasn’t even thinking about Asher anymore.

The guy I came to see had been eclipsed —

by a stranger with dreadlocks and art that made the world feel softer.

"So,” he said, after a small stretch of silence, “what’s your favorite piece?”

I looked around, pretending I hadn’t already picked one the moment I got there.

It was a canvas tucked in the corner — messy, chaotic, painted in hues of red and burnt orange, like a fire that never got put out.

“That one,” I said.

He smiled again, this time a little slower.

“That’s the one people usually avoid. Says too much.”

“Well,” I said, “maybe that’s why I like it.”

He looked at me then — really looked at me.

And I felt it. Like a weight shifting inside me.

It wasn’t attraction, not just that. It was recognition.

Like he saw something I hadn’t shown yet.

Before I could ask him what the painting meant or what inspired it, we were interrupted.

Loud laughter broke through the moment — my cousin, being her usual self, dragging a small group over to where we stood.

We stood there for hours — just talking.

About the paintings.

About inspiration.

About colors that made him feel things and stories he told with his brush instead of his voice.

Lucas had a way of speaking that made you feel like you were listening to something sacred. Like art wasn’t just something he did, it was something he was.

And somehow, in that moment, I didn’t just feel like I was part of the conversation — I felt like I was part of the art itself.

He told us about the art club.

How they were just starting something fresh — a community of creators. All we had to do was write our numbers down on a piece of paper.

Simple.

But for some reason, it felt bigger than that.

It felt like initiation.

Like I was joining something I didn’t fully understand.

Or maybe I was just falling in love with the idea of something — someone — who made me feel like I belonged.

My cousin signed up, of course. She could actually draw. Like really draw. The kind of talent that lives in fingertips.

Me? I just liked looking. I loved feeling things I couldn’t explain when I stared at brush strokes and colors that didn’t make sense but did.

And then — without even realizing it — we were asking others to join too. Like we had already become part of something. Like it had always been ours.

It was fun.

It was light.

And it was peaceful in a way I didn’t know I needed.

And Lucas — he made it all feel perfect.

The way he laughed gently.

The way he listened without interrupting.

The way he existed like the world didn’t rush him.

By the time Asher returned, I’d almost forgotten why I came to that space in the first place.

He walked towards us with ease, looking around like the world owed him something. He had that same confidence he had online — untouchable, magnetic. And when his eyes landed on me, he gave a small nod. He was kind, as always that's why I liked him. He wasn’t just amazing, he was kind too.

I greeted him casually — “Hey.”

No shaky voice. No movie moment.

It’s not that I didn’t like Asher anymore — I still did, in that distant, removed way people like celebrities. I loved his content.

The way someone might love a musician because of their songs, or an actor because of their characters, I liked him as a person too.

But Lucas…........

Lucas wasn’t a dream.

He wasn’t a character or a performance.

He was real. And it wasn’t just about his art.

It was the way he tilted his head slightly when he was trying to find the right words.

The way he pushed his locks behind his ear when he was stuck in a thought.

The way his smile stretched wide enough to light his whole face — nose tilting up slightly, cheeks soft and alive.

And those teeth… perfect and kind of unfair.

There was just something about him.

I couldn’t explain it.

But I knew it.

I was hooked.