It was raining, of course. It always rains in stories like these.
I was late to class, backpack soaked, sneakers squeaking against the library floor. That's when I collided with someone—books tumbling, papers flying like startled birds.
"Shit—sorry," he said, crouching down.
"No, no, I wasn't looking," I muttered, kneeling to help.
We both reached for the same notebook, hands brushing. His eyes met mine. Gray. Stormy. A little wild.
"I'm Eli," he said, half-smiling, handing me my notes.
"Lea."
That's how it began. Not with fireworks or fate. Just rain and an awkward apology.
But we clicked fast. Coffee dates turned into all-night talks. He'd rant about photography and complain about his messy roommate. I'd talk about writing, my favorite sad poems, my weird fear of escalators.
One night, under a string of fairy lights at a dorm party, he pulled me aside.
"You feel like... home," he said.
I laughed. "You're drunk."
"Maybe," he shrugged. "But I'd still mean it sober."
He wasn't perfect. Neither was I. But we were good. For a while, we were really good.