E
veryone in college has their spot.
Mine was front row, third from the left—right near the window.
The light hit just right in the mornings, and I liked how it warmed my notebook. It made the boring lectures feel a little softer.
That spot became my habit. My anchor.
And then, one day, he sat in it.
He wasn't new, but he was unfamiliar.
The kind of boy who kept to himself. Hoodie always up, earbuds always in, notebook always open.
I'd seen him around before—quiet, fast steps, head down.
But I'd never really noticed him until that morning.
He was already seated when I walked in. Head bowed. Writing something intensely like the world might vanish if he stopped.
I hesitated. Then cleared my throat.
"Um… sorry, you're in my seat."
He looked up slowly. Eyes gray, calm, unreadable.
"Oh," he said.
No apology. No explanation. Just that.
"It's not officially mine or anything," I added quickly, trying not to sound ridiculous. "I just always sit there."
He gave the smallest shrug.
"I like windows," he said.
And just like that, he turned back to his page.
So I sat two seats over.
I tried to focus, but I found myself glancing sideways.
His handwriting was small and sharp. His sleeves covered most of his hands.
He didn't laugh when the professor made one of his bad jokes. He didn't even flinch.
And yet, he didn't seem cold.
Just… tired.
That's the word I kept coming back to.
He looked like someone carrying something heavy that no one else could see.
After that, it became a routine.
He always came early and took the window seat.
And I always came a little later and sat two over.
We didn't speak. Not for weeks.
But I started noticing things.
Like how he tapped his pen twice before writing anything.
Or how his eyes drifted to the trees outside when he thought no one was watching.
I wondered what he was thinking.
I wondered what his name was.
And for reasons I couldn't explain,
I wondered what he sounded like when he laughed.
Then one day, I dropped my pen.
It hit the floor and rolled directly to his foot.
He picked it up and gently placed it back on my notebook.
He didn't smile. Didn't say anything at first.
But just as I was about to thank him, he said—
"You always draw flowers in the corners."
I blinked. "You noticed?"
He nodded, still not looking at me. "They're kind of messy… but kind of nice."
That was it.
He turned back to his notebook.
And I stared at the side of his face like he'd just told me something sacred.
Because in a way—he had.
He had been watching.
Quietly. Softly.
The way people do when they care before they even understand why.
We still didn't know each other's names.
But after that day, something changed.
I started bringing a second pen.
And sometimes, I made my flowers just a little messier.
To see if he'd notice again.
It wasn't love. Not yet.
But it was something.
Something quiet. Something soft. Something that felt like the beginning of a story I didn't know I was writing yet.
And even then, somewhere deep down…
I think I knew he'd be the one to hurt me.
Ginny's Diary Entry #1
Date: September 14th
Dear not-a-diary,
I'm not sure why I'm writing this down.
Maybe to remember it better.
Or maybe to pretend like I didn't think about him all day.
He sat in my seat again.
Of course he did. It's his now, I guess.
But today, he said something.
He noticed my flowers. The ones I always draw in the margins when I'm bored or anxious or just need something to make the page feel softer.
"They're messy… but kind of nice."
That's what he said.
And I haven't stopped thinking about it.
He didn't smile. He didn't flirt. He didn't even look at me properly.
But I felt seen.
Like I wasn't just another student in another lecture.
Like he'd been paying attention this whole time and just chose today to speak.
I don't even know his name.
Isn't that stupid?
I'm writing about a stranger like he's already something important.
But maybe that's the thing.
He didn't feel like a stranger today.
He felt… familiar.
Like the beginning of something I don't understand yet.
And I don't know if I'm scared of it or hoping for more.
—Ginny