I wasn't trying to notice her; she just happened to sit next to me. It was our first lecture of the semester—Monday morning at 8 a.m.
The hall was half full, with most students either tired, late, or confused about where they were supposed to be. I arrived early, as usual. Not because I was excited, but because being late made me anxious. I took my seat in the third row, second from the left—the same spot I had chosen during orientation.
It felt safe: close to the board and far from attention. Then she walked in. She scanned the hall like she was looking for something, or maybe someone. Finally, her eyes landed on the seat next to me. "Is this taken?" she asked. I shook my head. "No. You can sit." She nodded and took a seat. There was no big smile, no awkwardness—just a quick "thanks" followed by silence. That was the first time I saw Clara. She didn't seem like someone trying to make an impression. With plain black braids, a simple hoodie, and no makeup, she pulled out a laptop, opened a notebook, and began scribbling something even before the lecturer arrived.
She seemed focused and calm, as if she were already in the middle of something important. I didn't say much. I kept my eyes on the slides when the lecturer arrived and introduced the course—something long and heavy-sounding with "theory" in the title. A few jokes flew over our heads. Some people laughed, but most remained quiet. By the end of the class, I had taken a full page of notes while she had filled three. When the lecturer said, "We'll continue here on Wednesday," she looked at me and asked, "Did you understand most of that?" "Some of it," I replied. "Not all." She nodded, as if she had expected that. "Same." Then she packed her things and left. That's how it started—no spark, no drama, just two students sitting next to each other.
But something about her stuck with me. In the next class, she arrived early again and chose the same seat beside me. After that, we began whispering about assignments, discussing readings, and sharing YouTube links to lectures. There was nothing romantic about it—just academic survival.
As the days passed, I found myself looking for her first when I entered the hall, waiting for her questions, and noticing how she chewed her pen when she was thinking. I observed how she always sat up straight, regardless of how long the lecture dragged on. She was unlike anyone I had ever met, and perhaps that made things harder later. Both of us wanted the same things—success, excellence, future careers. We were too focused to admit what was slowly developing between us. We never spoke it aloud, but even from the beginning, I knew this wasn't going to be simple.