After my relationship with Daniel, I decided I was done sulking.
If one doesn't work, onto the next. At the end of the day, I'll find my person.
Little did I know, he was going to be worse than the last.
Every man with their own brand of baggage.
Zain came into my life when I least expected it. I was in my first year of college, finally adjusting to the chaos — late lectures, confusing assignments, cafeteria food that tasted like regret.
Our professor had just announced a group project. I didn't even look up from my notebook when he said, "You'll all be paired in twos." I groaned under my breath. I hated group work. It always meant I'd end up doing everything while someone else coasted.
"Jennifer," the professor called, scanning his list. "You'll be working with… Zain."
I finally looked up, and there he was — sitting two rows behind me, leaning back like life was a movie made just for him.
He smiled when our eyes met. That lazy, self-assured smile that says trouble, but make it pretty.
He stood up and walked over after class, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Guess we're partners now," he said. His voice was smooth — like he'd practiced sounding effortless.
I rolled my eyes, but couldn't stop the small smile tugging at my lips. "Try not to make me do all the work."
"Me? Never," he said, pretending to look offended. "But you do look like a perfectionist. So if you insist on doing most of it, I'll just let you."
That earned him a playful glare. And maybe, just maybe, a laugh.
The next day, we met at the campus café to plan the project. It was one of those small, warm places tucked behind the art building — the kind that smelled like cinnamon and cheap espresso. He was already there when I arrived, typing on his laptop, two cups of coffee sitting on the table.
"You're early," I said, surprised.
He looked up, grin widening. "I was trying to make a good impression. And I got you a latte — you look like the type who likes something sweet."
He was right.
I took a sip and tried to hide my smile, but he noticed anyway. "That's a thank you smile," he teased. "You can say the words, though."
"Thank you," I said, rolling my eyes again.
We spent hours in that café — talking about everything but the project. He was funny in that natural way, not the type who tried too hard. We argued about movies, bonded over our mutual hatred for early morning lectures, and laughed about professors who still used chalkboards in 2025.
Somewhere between the jokes and shared fries, I forgot that we were supposed to be working.
When we finally looked at the time, it was past 6 p.m.
"Wow," I said, blinking at my laptop. "We got nothing done."
"Speak for yourself," he said, leaning back. "I got your number."
I nearly choked on my drink. "You didn't even ask for it!"
"Didn't have to," he said, pointing at the screen. "It's on the shared document. But I'll pretend you gave it to me willingly."
That night, he texted me.
Zain: "Did you get home safe?"
Me: "Yes, grandpa."
Zain: "Good. Wouldn't want my project partner getting kidnapped before we ace this thing."
Me: "You mean before I ace it."
Zain: "We'll see about that. Sweet dreams, Miss Perfectionist."
I stared at the message longer than I should have.
The next few weeks flew by. We met up often, sometimes for the project, sometimes just to talk. Zain had this calm confidence about him — he never raised his voice, never rushed anything. He listened, really listened, and it was intoxicating in a quiet way.
He started walking me back to my dorm after late study sessions, always with that same lazy grin. Once, it started raining, and instead of running for cover, he held his notebook over my head while his own shirt got drenched.
"You're getting wet," I said, laughing.
He shrugged. "It's fine. You hate the rain more than I do."
By the time we finished the project, I was falling — slowly, stupidly, beautifully.
When the professor praised our work, Zain whispered, "Told you we'd make a good team."
And I smiled, because he wasn't just talking about the project.
Later that evening, we celebrated at the same café. I wore a white top and jeans, hair down, trying not to overthink everything. He complimented me the moment he saw me. "You clean up nice," he said.
"So I was messy before?"
"Messy cute," he replied, grinning. "Like… effortlessly adorable."
I laughed so hard, people turned to look. And he just sat there, watching me with that look — the one that makes your chest feel like a drum.
When he walked me home that night, we stopped outside my dorm. The air was cool, soft.
He looked down at me. "So… this was fun."
"It was," I said quietly.
He leaned in just slightly, close enough for me to smell his cologne — warm and clean. My heart started racing.
But instead of kissing me, he smiled, brushed a stray strand of hair from my face, and said, "Goodnight, Jen."
Then he walked away.
And that was the moment I knew — Zain was different.
Or at least, I thought he was.
And just like that, another chapter of my heart began — full of warmth, laughter, and late-night calls that stretched until dawn.
Of course, I didn't know how it would end. I didn't know that behind all that charm, there was another kind of lesson waiting — one that would teach me the meaning of giving too much to someone who never truly gives back.
But that's a story for later.
For now, all I knew was that I liked Zain.
And that was enough.