I had always believed love would arrive like it does in books — dramatic, sweeping, and impossible to ignore. The kind of love that makes your stomach twist into knots and your cheeks flush without warning. I pictured it in poetry, in songs, in the whispered words of people who had already lived it. And yet, as I hurried across campus that Thursday morning, barely awake and juggling too many books, I realized that life had a sense of humor.
My backpack strap slipped off my shoulder just as I turned a corner, and I went down in slow motion, books flying in every direction. My notes scattered across the pavement like fallen leaves, and I swore under my breath as I knelt to gather them. Of course, I hadn't had the chance to finish my morning coffee, so my hands were shaking from both nerves and lack of caffeine.
"Careful."
I froze.
The voice wasn't loud or scolding. It wasn't like the teachers' voices that made you cringe, or the classmates' teasing tones that made you blush with embarrassment. It was calm, deliberate, almost deliberate in a way that made the world pause. I looked up, and my heart decided then and there that it had just tripped along with me.
He was kneeling across from me, carefully picking up my scattered notebooks. His suit was crisp, dark, and tailored in a way that made me suddenly self-conscious in my oversized sweater and sneakers. I noticed the gleam of his watch and the shine of his shoes, but those weren't what held me hostage. His eyes were steady and calm, as if nothing in the world could disturb their focus. Not judgmental. Not indifferent. Just… curious.
"You should hold your books tighter," he said softly, handing me the last one. "The world doesn't slow down for daydreamers."
My cheeks burned. I couldn't decide if I was flustered, embarrassed, or inexplicably thrilled.
"I… yeah, I guess I tripped," I mumbled, fumbling with my straps.
He gave me a small, subtle smile — the kind of smile that makes you want to smile back, even though you don't know why.
"Tripping is acceptable. Losing your books is not."
I laughed nervously, shoving the last notebook into my backpack. My heart was hammering in a way that made me wonder if anyone had ever felt this alive over someone simply helping them pick up their fallen books.
"Thanks… um… for helping me," I said finally, hoping I sounded coherent.
He nodded once, his movements measured and calm.
"Don't mention it."
And just like that, he walked away. Confident. Slow. Unhurried. And I, standing in the middle of the campus sidewalk with my backpack slipping again, realized my heart had no idea what had just happened.
I tried to go to my first class, but my thoughts refused to let me concentrate. Who is he? Why do I feel like I've seen him before? Why do I feel… lightheaded? I shoved the questions aside, blaming it on my overactive imagination and the fact that I hadn't slept enough.
By the time I reached my literature lecture, I had convinced myself that he was probably some older student visiting campus, someone rich and untouchable, like the heroes in the books I loved. Yet, somewhere deep down, I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just some passing stranger. This was someone who had quietly shifted something in me without even trying.
The rest of the morning was a blur of note-taking and daydreaming. I found myself staring out of the window, imagining how he walked with such ease, how his calm eyes had held mine for just a few seconds, and how his presence made my stomach flutter in ways I had never felt. It was irrational, I knew — but wasn't that what being young and romantic was all about?
By lunch, I had convinced myself that it would be impossible to see him again. Yet, as fate would have it, there he was — standing near the campus café, casually glancing at the menu board as if he belonged there. I froze, books clutched to my chest, unsure if I should approach or pretend not to notice.
"Hey," a voice said.
I spun around. My heart jumped.
"Uh… hi?"
He smiled, that same small, deliberate smile.
"May I?" he asked, gesturing to the empty seat beside me.
I nodded, almost fumbling, and he sat down with a grace that made it clear he was always in control — calm, composed, steady.
We ordered coffee — mine iced, because I always needed something sweet to survive the day — and I found myself babbling about my classes, my friends, my favorite books. And he listened. Really listened. Not like someone pretending to be polite, but like he was genuinely interested in everything I said. Every word I spoke seemed to matter to him, and I found myself leaning forward slightly, enchanted by the way he made even ordinary conversation feel extraordinary.
"I am Damien",
"You love books," he observed after a long pause, "more than most people I meet love their own dreams."
I laughed nervously.
"I'm Kylee",
"I guess I do. They're… safe. Predictable. Magical."
He nodded, sipping his coffee.
"Safe and magical," he repeated thoughtfully. "I like that."
Over the next hour, I realized something remarkable: I had imagined love as fireworks, as chaotic storms, as emotional intensity. But sitting across from Damien, I felt something completely different. It wasn't overwhelming, and it didn't make my heart pound in panic. It was… steady. Warm. Intentional.
And yet, my naïve heart told me this must be wrong. He's too calm. Too composed. Too perfect. Why would someone like him notice me, a clumsy literature student who trips over her own feet and daydreams too much?
He smiled again, gently, and I realized I couldn't stop staring. Not because he was handsome — though he was — but because he made me feel like I was the only person in the world at that moment.
"Do you always get distracted by your own books?" he teased softly.
"Only when they're falling on my head," I muttered, cheeks burning again.
We laughed together, a soft, easy laughter that didn't feel forced. And in that moment, I made a quiet, foolish promise to myself: I'm going to see him again. Somehow. No matter what.
The afternoon passed in a haze of daydreams. I replayed every detail of our encounter in my mind: the way he handed me the notebook, the calmness in his eyes, the faint curve of his smile, and the way he had called me "careful" without sounding patronizing. Every fiber of my being whispered that this was the start of something… extraordinary.
As I walked back to my dorm, I felt a strange mixture of excitement and fear. Excitement because meeting him had been so utterly different from anything I had imagined. Fear because I was naïve, and life had a way of reminding you that fairytales often came with consequences.
Yet, I couldn't stop smiling. I didn't want to. And somewhere deep inside, I knew — though I didn't yet understand how — that my life had just changed.