The days moved on, but something about Ella lingered in Emmanuel's mind—like a song that refused to fade. She wasn't just another girl. She was different in the most infuriating way.
She didn't flirt.
She didn't chase.
She didn't try.
And that made her the most interesting girl Emmanuel had ever met.
He saw her again on Thursday—seated in her usual spot, head bowed over her notes, entirely focused on the lecture.
Emmanuel took a seat two rows behind her, though he barely heard a word the lecturer was saying. He was watching her hand as it moved across the page, steady and elegant. Not once did she look around, not even when he knew she had to feel his eyes on her.
When the class ended, he stood and timed his steps to match hers as she exited.
"Ella," he called.
She turned, her face neutral. "Yes?"
He smiled, flashing that grin that usually did the trick. "You don't wait for me after class?"
She blinked slowly, as though processing his question with more seriousness than it deserved. "Should I?"
He chuckled, thrown off again. "Well, maybe. I'm good company."
"Confidence," she said, her tone light but sharp. "A little too much of it, maybe."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'd say it's earned."
"Hmm." She gave a small, unreadable smile, the kind that could mean anything—or nothing at all. "We'll see."
Before he could reply, she turned and walked away again, leaving him standing there, stunned.
Again.
---
Later that evening, he was still thinking about her.
In his hostel room, Kingsley was sprawled on the bed watching football while Emmanuel sat on his desk, absently spinning a pen between his fingers.
"Bro," Kingsley said, not looking away from the screen, "if you stare into space any longer, you'll burn a hole in the wall."
"I think I met someone," Emmanuel said.
That got Kingsley's attention. He turned.
"You? Met someone?" He scoffed. "You meet girls every day. What's new?"
"No, I mean—she's different."
Kingsley raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"
"She doesn't care."
"About you?"
"About anyone. She's... just in her own world. No makeup. No pretending. She actually pays attention in class."
"Wow. A decent girl on campus. What a shocker."
Emmanuel rolled his eyes. "I'm serious."
Kingsley studied him for a second. "You like her?"
"I don't know," Emmanuel admitted. "But I can't stop thinking about her."
---
The next week, he tried again. He found her in the library this time—tucked between shelves in the Literature section, flipping through a thick novel with creased corners and a faded cover.
"Hey," he said, voice softer than usual.
She glanced up. "Emmanuel."
She remembered his name.
That had to be a good sign.
"What are you reading?" he asked, stepping closer.
"'The Kite Runner'," she replied.
He peered at the title. "That's... about war, right?"
"And love. And guilt."
"Deep stuff."
"That's why I like it."
He nodded, leaning on the edge of the bookshelf. "You always read this kind of thing?"
She closed the book gently. "I like stories that leave something behind."
He smiled. "I've got a few stories."
She gave him a look—one he couldn't quite read. "I bet you do."
He laughed, then let the silence stretch a little too long.
"So," he tried, "maybe we could grab coffee sometime?"
Ella blinked once. "Why?"
He paused. "Because I'd like to talk more. Get to know you."
She tilted her head slightly. "Or because you're used to getting what you want?"
He exhaled, caught.
"No," he said. "Not this time."
There was a flicker in her eyes then—something soft, fleeting.
"Maybe," she said quietly, "we'll see."
Then she walked away again, leaving him standing between dusty books and a racing heart.
---
For the first time in a long time, Emmanuel didn't feel like the player.
He felt like the one being studied. Measured.
And weirdly, he liked it.
He started showing up to lectures early—something he'd never done in his life—just to catch her walking in.
He paid attention in class. Took notes. Sat quietly.
Sometimes she glanced his way. Sometimes not.
But once, just once, he caught her smiling when she thought he wasn't looking.
And that one moment kept him awake for hours.
---
A few days later, it was raining.
Students rushed under umbrellas and ducked into buildings for shelter. Emmanuel found himself outside the cafeteria, watching the storm soak the entire courtyard.
Then he saw her—walking under the rain without a single care, her hands wrapped around a book to keep it dry.
He ran toward her, holding his jacket over both their heads.
"You'll get soaked," he said.
"I'm fine," she replied, blinking water from her lashes.
"You don't care?"
"About rain? No."
He stared at her then. Drenched, book in hand, face calm and eyes shining with something pure.
She was beautiful.
Not the flashy kind. Not the kind you noticed from across a party.
But the kind you noticed when the world slowed down.
And right then, Emmanuel knew.
He was falling.
Hard.
And for once, he didn't want to stop it.