𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐄𝐃

I wake up at five in the morning daily to run because it's easier to get through the day once you've already released some pressure. Off-campus housing is quiet this time of morning, the kind of quiet that feels like a reward if you're willing to earn it. There's no music bleeding through walls. Just the slap of my shoes against pavement and my breath settling into something steady enough to hold onto.

The loop behind my complex is familiar. The cracked sidewalk greeted me. The stretch of grass that never grows right remained. The same parked cars in slightly different arrangements every morning. I like knowing what's coming. It keeps my head from filling in the gaps with things I don't want to deal with.

First mile is warm up. Second is where it starts to work. I'm rounding the corner by the ground floor units when I see the truck. Hazards on, trunk open. Boxes stacked unevenly along the curb like they haven't decided whether they belong inside yet. Someone's moving. I clock it without slowing down.

Then I see her. She's standing a few feet away from the truck, leaning lightly against the railing like she's supervising more than helping. Long dark hair loose down her back. Tan skin catching the early light. Crop top, jean shorts. Bare legs like the morning chill didn't register.

She looks better than your average human. She picks up a box and turns around, marching up a staircase. She looks good from the back too, but what woman doesn't? I think to myself and chuckle. I keep jogging. I just pass her like I pass everything else on this loop.

My reality snaps back into place. Shoes on pavement. Heart rate climbing. Morning doing what mornings do. I push harder. Third mile. Then another. I tell myself I'm chasing a PR, that this is the point. My legs start to burn in a way that usually feels good, grounding, but today it's different. The rhythm won't lock in. My breath keeps coming half a beat off.

I check my watch too early. I'm not going to hit it. I know that on my last mile and by time I'm done, I was right. I missed my personal record time. Not by much, but by more than enough to piss me off.

I slow to a walk, hands on my hips in tight fists, chest heaving. Sweat cools too fast against my skin. I tell myself I didn't sleep enough. Tell myself it's nothing. The excuses land flat.

Back inside, I make my protein shake. Same scoop, same ratio, same blender I use every morning. It stalls halfway through, whining like it's struggling with something it shouldn't be.

The consistency's wrong. It's too thick and looks like concrete. I drink it anyway. It tastes like chalk and disappointment.

I dump the rest down the sink and rinse the cup harder than necessary. The rest of the morning goes the way it's supposed to. Weights, counted reps, and muscle memory. The familiar burn that feels earned. I shower and change.

In the car, the radio feels too loud. I turn it off. I drive in silence, jaw tight, one hand gripping the wheel while the other taps against my thigh without meaning to. At a red light, my mind drifts back without asking. Finally, I park in my usual spot. I close my truck door with a slam, locking it as I walk away.

Once I arrive, I move through campus like I always do. People recognize me, not know me. Not in a celebrity way. Just enough. I'm an athlete, so they watch me every other weekend. I'm the captain of the baseball team. I can tell that my presence effects people. I like that part of it. Being obvious. By the time I get to my afternoon class, my head's clear again. Just another morning in my book. It's raining and gloomy outside. I feel ready to be done with the day already.

I take my usual seat. Near the aisle. Back straight, my leg shaking restlessly like always. The professor is already talking when the door opens.

She steps in quietly, like she's not trying to interrupt even though everyone looks anyway. The room shifts the way it always does when someone new walks in. Brief curiosity, then they stare like they've never seen a human before.

I don't look right away. I hear it first. The change in the room. A pause that's barely there.

"Sorry," she says, soft, compliant. Not rushed.

The professor smiles, waves her in like it's no problem. "No worries. You must be our new addition!"

That's when I look. It's her. Same girl from the morning. Same hair, darker inside now. Same calm. Different clothes, but the same sense that she didn't try very hard and didn't need to.

She stands at the front while the professor asks her name, where she's transferring from. Normal questions. She gives boringly normal answers. Her voice doesn't shake. She doesn't over explain. She smiles as she speaks, confidence radiating off of her. I take her in properly this time.

Her face is softer than I expected and balanced. Dark eyes that don't dart around the room like she's measuring herself against it. She doesn't smile much, but when she does it's small and controlled, like she's choosing it. She looks... established and wise beyond her years. Like she already knows how this goes.

The professor gestures to the open seat two rows down from me. She walks past without looking at anyone in particular, backpack slung over one shoulder, movements unhurried. As she passes my row, she glances over. Just once.

Something in my chest tightens, quick and involuntary. My posture shifts without me meaning to. I sit a little straighter like it matters.

She takes her seat and faces forward. That's it.

Class continues. Notes on the board. Voices steady again. The room resets around her like she's always been there.

I don't stare at the back of her head, but when she sits, her perfume wafts across the room and I catch a whiff. She smells like peaches and vanilla. My mouth waters before I can tell it to do otherwise. I shake my head slightly, trying to focus on the professor.

My brain refuses to cooperate. My thoughts found their way back to her each time. She was wearing a thin sweater with a short plaid skirt and stockings with leg warmers and converse. She looked comfortable and timeless. I silently admired that she didn't seem to care about name-brand high-cost items. Her style was warm and genuine, a freshly welcomed change to the other females at our school. Her beauty was natural and effortless.

By time class started to wrap up, she walked up to the instructor, gathering materials from her absence in the first two weeks of class. I watched the way her gold jewelry glimmered in the dull overhead lights. The way her waist-lemgth brown hair just seemed to carelessly fall over her shoulder. The way her sweater slid up ever so slightly exposing her stomach and shoulders.

One thing was for sure. I would need to know more about her, at the very least.