ARRIVAL
“Some dreams don’t knock—they burst through the door and ask you to live them.”
I stepped off the bus onto the cobbled lane just as dawn spilled pale gold across Oxford’s ancient spires. My heart fluttered—after years in my village, this was the moment I’d dreamed of. I tugged my satchel higher on my shoulder and breathed in the crisp morning air. Today, I became an Oxford undergraduate.
I found my new room on the second floor of College House: two twin beds framed by wrought-iron headboards, a pair of oak desks beneath a tall sash window, and a narrow bookshelf already half-filled with classics. Sunlight pooled across polished floorboards, and the faint scent of beeswax polish still lingered. A petite writing desk stood in one corner, its top clear but for a single brass lamp. I set my trunk down, imagining how I’d turn this blank canvas into my own.
A bright knock at the door announced my roommate. “Elina?” called a warm voice. The door swung open on soft hinges and there stood Ajexa—her fair curls tumbling over a friendly grin. She was slender and graceful, her skin like cream in the morning light.
“Ajexa, hi!” I set down my suitcase.
“Come here,” she said, stepping inside to help me. Together, we unpacked dresses and notebooks. She hung my watercolor prints on the wall with clothespins, smoothed my shawls into the wardrobe, and showed me how the little radiator under the window worked. All the while she chatted about campus life as though she were guiding me through a garden of delights.
Once the room felt like home, Ajexa took my hand. “Ready for the grand tour?”
Outside, college courtyards opened like secret gardens. We passed cloisters where early-blooming roses brushed the stone walls, and statues of poets peered from niches. The tower of the Radcliffe Camera soared above us, its dome gleaming in the sun. Everywhere I looked, carved angels and cherubs smiled; every pathway felt hallowed.
“This place,” Ajexa said, her voice hushed, “feels like heaven to me.”
We wound through the Bodleian’s arched doorway, where hush reigned and readers moved like shadows among marble columns. We paused beside the Bridge of Sighs, and I traced its latticed windows with wide eyes. At every turn, I felt my rural past fall away, replaced by this ancient magic.
Soon, she led me to a sunlit courtyard where four figures lounged on wrought-iron chairs. “Elina, meet my friends.”
Isla Bennett stood first: tall and poised in tweed, her dark eyes bright with wit. Zoya Rahman sat cross-legged on the grass, her book open, softspoken yet luminous. Luna Hart sketched on a pad, her fingers flecked with charcoal, dreamy as moonlight. And perched on the stone bench was Theo Clarke—a boy with sandy hair and an easy smile—while beside him stood James, spectacles perched on his nose, alert and thoughtful. Amara, ever poised, hovered with a plan fluttering behind her eyes.
They greeted me with questions: Was I excited? Did I love poetry? I nodded, breathless with belonging. Zoya beamed. “We all share that,” she said, passing me a bookmark inscribed with Neruda.
Ajexa slipped an arm around my shoulders. “After classes, you simply must visit The Dream Library. It’s just off High Street, and I promise it’s worth every step.”
I tucked the thought away as we parted for our first lecture.
The classroom was a panelled chamber of oak, amber light filtering through stained-glass windows. The professor lectured on Romantic ecstasy in Keats’s odes—words like “aquatic Hesper” and “immortal bird” spilled across the air. I leaned forward, heart humming, scribbling notes. Every line awakened something deep inside me: the ache of longing, the thrill of beauty.
When the bell rang, the room emptied but for one figure. A tall young man with dark-blond hair and clear blue eyes approached. He moved like someone used to getting attention.
“Hi, I’m Bora,” he said, voice smooth as honey. “I’ve seen you around. I’d love to show you the town sometime.”
I lifted my gaze. He was handsome in a striking way—five-foot-nine, athletic build. But Ajexa’s warning echoed in my mind: Bora had a reputation for late-night parties and worse. I forced a polite smile. “Thank you, but I’m meeting Ajexa in ten minutes.”
His expression flickered. “Maybe another time?”
I shook my head firmly. “Sorry.”
His jaw clenched. “You’ll change your mind,” he said, voice low. And then he stepped too close, one hand brushing the edge of my desk. I froze.
Before I could respond, a sharp voice rang out. “Back off.”
Isla stood at my side, arms folded. Bora turned to her, stepping forward. “Who are you?” he sneered.
Isla didn’t flinch. “Someone who won’t let you harass her friend.”
Bora laughed cruelly and shoved Isla’s shoulder. She staggered back but held her ground. “Touch me again,” she warned.
He lunged toward me, but Isla struck first—her fist connecting with his side. The classroom erupted in gasps. Zoya and Luna rushed forward, pulling him off with Amara’s help. Bora spat curses, face flushed, and bolted past bewildered students.
I pressed a hand to my chest, trading places with Isla. She wrapped an arm around me, eyes blazing. “Are you all right?”
Tears of gratitude burned behind my lashes. “Thank you,” I whispered.
Isla gave a wry grin. “No one messes with my friends.”
That afternoon, Ajexa found me on a bench near the rose garden. I told her everything—Bora’s harassment, Isla’s rescue. She clasped my hand. “I’m so proud of Isla. And of you, for standing your ground.”
My chest felt light, buoyed by their loyalty. “I don’t know what I’d do without you all.”
“Tomorrow,” Ajexa said, bright as sunrise, “we conquer The Dream Library.”
I smiled at the promise. In that moment, Oxford didn’t feel like a distant dream—it felt like home, built of kindness, courage, and the whispered magic that blooms where stories live.
That night, as I curled up in my new bed beneath the soft hum of Oxford’s silence, I felt the weight of everything—excitement, fear, wonder, and the strange ache of being seen and almost hurt.
Ajexa was already asleep, her breathing steady like a lullaby. I stared at the ceiling, replaying Isla’s fierce defense, Bora’s cold eyes, and the professor’s words about love daring to tread where wolves fear.
Tomorrow, I’d visit The Dream Library.
But tonight, I let myself dream.
“Some days begin with footsteps. Others begin with fire. And mine had both.”
