Almost

The first time I thought someone was in love with me, he was actually trying to keep a door from hitting me in the face.

In my defense, I was carrying a box labeled KITCHEN in permanent marker, a duffel bag that was actively cutting off the circulation to my shoulder, and a coffee I had no business buying five minutes after my mother had reminded me that I was supposed to be saving money.Also, the door was very heavy.

So when the boy in front of me grabbed it and held it open, I thought it meant something.

Not love, exactly.

That would have been insane. Probably. But maybe the beginning of something. Maybe.

I stepped through the residence hall doors and immediately regretted wearing jeans.

North Carolina in August was not interested in my personal comfort.

Heat rushed over me like someone had opened an oven.

“Why,” I whispered to absolutely nobody, “did I choose a school in the South?”

A family walking behind me laughed.

I pretended they hadn’t heard.

They probably hadn’t.

Hopefully.

I kept walking.

Hawthorne University spread out in front of me in a way that felt almost offensively beautiful. The main quad was enormous, framed by old brick buildings with white columns and ivy climbing their walls. Students crossed the lawn carrying boxes, backpacks, lamps, plants, pillows, and what appeared to be an entire television. Someone was crying near the fountain. Someone else was taking pictures in front of a statue. A girl in a yellow sundress was sitting on the grass with her boyfriend, who was feeding her strawberries.

I looked away. Not because I was jealous. I was absolutely jealous.

But only in a normal way.

A healthy way.

A way that definitely didn’t make me wonder whether they had met here freshman year and were now living the college love story everyone secretly expected to have.

I adjusted my grip on the box.

The tape at the bottom made a worrying cracking sound.

“No,” I whispered.

The box cracked again.

“Please don’t.”

I sped up.

My room was in Hawthorne Hall, which was apparently located approximately four miles from where the parking lot was allowed to exist.

My mother, Rebecca, had dropped me off twenty minutes ago.

She had hugged me three times. Given me twelve warnings. Asked if I had packed enough underwear. Asked if I had remembered my charger. Asked if I had enough money. Asked if I was sure about journalism.

Then she had cried. Then I had cried. Then she had cried because I cried. Then I had started crying because she was crying.

Then my younger sister, Lily, had gotten impatient and said, “Can everyone stop crying? It’s embarrassing.”

Which had somehow made all of us laugh.

And then they left.

Just like that.

I was nineteen.

I was in college.

I was officially responsible for myself. Which sounded exciting until you realized that being responsible for yourself included remembering to eat, sleep, study, do laundry, pay attention in class, make friends, avoid failing, and somehow figure out what you wanted to do with the rest of your life.

I wasn’t sure I was qualified.

I passed a campus map. I stopped. I looked at it. Then I looked at the building in front of me. Then back at the map.

“That’s not right.”

A guy walking past glanced at me. “Lost?”

“No.”

I pointed confidently at the map. “I’m orienting myself.”

He smiled. “Sure.”

Then he walked away.

I hated him.

I turned the map upside down.

It didn’t help.

Eventually, I found Hawthorne Hall.

The front steps were crowded with students and parents. A volunteer in a purple Hawthorne shirt was handing out welcome packets.

“Welcome to Hawthorne!”

“Thank you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Amelia Carter.”

She handed me a packet.

“Welcome home, Amelia.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

Home.

I looked up at the university buildings.

For the first time since my mother drove away, something inside me settled.

Maybe this really could be home.

Maybe this could be where everything started.

The thought made my stomach flutter.

I hated that.

My stomach had been doing that all morning.

Probably dehydration.

Definitely dehydration.

I climbed the steps.

Halfway to the door, the box in my arms shifted.

I tightened my grip.

The bottom gave another ominous little crack.

I froze

“No.”

Someone behind me said, “You okay?”

I turned.

A guy was standing two steps below me.

Brown hair.

Blue T-shirt.

Basketball shorts.

A smile that made it seem like we’d already met.

“I’m fine.”

The box cracked.

He raised an eyebrow. “Looks like it.”

“It’s just books.”

“That’s what people say right before something breaks.”

“It’s not going to break.”

The bottom of the box fell open.

Three notebooks, a sweater, and what I believe was a decorative candle fell directly onto the stairs.

There was a pause.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

“Okay,” I said.

He laughed.

Not cruelly.

Just enough to make me laugh too.

He crouched down and started gathering everything. “I’ve got it.”

“So do I.”

“You clearly don’t.”

I stared at him.

He smiled.

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re right.”

He handed me one of my notebooks.

The black one.

My journal.

I took it quickly.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

We gathered the rest.

Then he stood and picked up the box.

“Where are you headed?”

“Third floor.”

He looked at the box.

Then at me.

“You’re not carrying that.”

“I can carry it.”

“I believe you.”

He took it anyway.

I followed him inside.

The air-conditioning hit my face.

I almost cried.

“Oh my God.”

He laughed.

“What?”

“Air-conditioning.”

He nodded solemnly.

“One of Hawthorne’s greatest achievements.”

I smiled.

We walked toward the stairs.

“I’m Noah, by the way.”

“Amelia.”

He looked at me.

“Amelia.”

I waited.

“That’s pretty.”

I blinked.

“Oh.”

He smiled.

Then started climbing the stairs.

I followed.

My brain, which had been relatively quiet for approximately eight seconds, immediately woke up.

That’s pretty.

He had said my name was pretty.

Not my shirt.

Not my earrings.

My name.

Was that flirting?

Probably not.

Maybe.

He was carrying my box.

He had complimented my name.

He had made me laugh.

This was how things happened in college, wasn’t it?

Not that I was assuming anything.

I wasn’t.

I was simply noticing.

There was a difference.

“You a freshman?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”

“Nice.”

“Business.”

“Journalism.”

“That’s cool.”

“Thanks.”

Why did I say thanks?

He didn’t give me an award.

He was just talking.

We reached the second floor.

Then the third.

He carried the box down the hallway.

“Room number?”

“Three-oh-eight.”

He stopped.

“That’s mine.”

My heart did something weird. Not a flutter.

More like a tiny cartwheel.

“Oh.”

He pointed toward the door beside mine.

“Three-oh-seven.”

I looked at his door.

Then mine.

Then his.

“You’re my neighbor.”

“Looks like it.”

We both smiled.

For some reason, neither of us moved.

Then he looked down at the box.

“Where do you want this?”

“Inside.”

“Good plan.”

He opened my door.

My roommate wasn’t there yet.

The room looked smaller than it had during orientation.

Two beds.

Two desks.

Two closets.

One tiny window overlooking the parking lot.

I set my backpack down.

Noah placed the box on my bed.

“There.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded.

Then he started walking toward the door.

“Wait.”

He turned.

“Yeah?”

I don’t know why I stopped him. Maybe I wanted to say something interesting. Something memorable. Something that would make this moment matter.

Instead, I said:

“Do you know where the laundry room is?”

He laughed. “Basement.”

“Right.”

“You’re going to survive.”

“I hope so.”

“You will.”

Then he left.

I stood in the middle of the room.

Alone.

I looked at the open doorway.

Then at the box.

Then at the black notebook sitting on top of everything else.

I picked it up.

I sat at the desk.

The chair squeaked beneath me.

Outside my window, someone shouted, “WHERE IS THE STUDENT UNION?”

Someone shouted back, “I DON’T KNOW!”

A car horn blared. Music started somewhere down the hall. Someone laughed. A door slammed. College was happening all around me.

I opened my notebook.

At the top of a clean page, I wrote the date.

August 19

Then, underneath it:

Hawthorne University. Freshman Year.

I stared at the blank page.

I didn’t know what I was supposed to write.

So I wrote the first thing that came to mind.

Maybe this is where everything begins.

I stared at the sentence.

It sounded too cheesy.

I crossed out everything.

Then I wrote it again.

I underlined it.

I don’t know why.

Maybe because I had always believed beginnings were supposed to announce themselves.

A first kiss.

A first day.

A first love.

A moment when the universe quietly rearranged itself and said:

Pay attention.

I thought about the boy next door.

Noah.

The way he’d carried my box.

The way he’d said my name.

The way he’d smiled.

I added another sentence.

Today, a boy held a door open for me.

I paused.

Then:

Maybe that’s how it starts.

I closed the notebook.

I didn’t know it yet, but I was going to be wrong.

Not about the door.

He really had held it open.

I was going to be wrong about what it meant.

And that would be the first lesson Hawthorne University taught me.

Not the important one.

Not even the hardest one.

Just the first.

Because sometimes a boy can hold a door open for you simply because you’re standing behind him.

Sometimes a smile is just a smile.

Sometimes someone remembers your coffee order because you order the exact same coffee every morning.

And sometimes—

sometimes—

you can spend months building an entire love story out of moments that were never asking to become one.

I just didn’t know any of that yet.

I was nineteen.

I had a black notebook.

A journalism major.

A new room.

A campus I had already decided was magical.

And a boy next door.

That was enough.