Dafne did not expect to die on the first day of college.
And yet, as she wheezed up the narrow stairs of her new apartment building—dragging what could only be described as her entire adolescent life stuffed into mismatched luggage—death felt imminent. It wasn't poetic. It was sweaty, inconvenient, and slightly humiliating.
"You okay there?" a voice asked, with the kind of casual concern reserved for strangers who think they might have to call an ambulance.
She looked up—through a curtain of hair stuck to her forehead—and there he was. Tall. Tanned. Smiling like a toothpaste commercial. He looked like the kind of person who had never once tripped while holding three duffel bags and a rice cooker.
"Yeah," she lied. "Just doing my cardio for the year."
He laughed. Not a condescending laugh. A real one. And then, without asking, he picked up the heaviest bag like it weighed nothing and said, "Come on. What floor?"
"Third," she said. "Unit 3B."
"Seriously?" His eyebrows lifted. "I'm 3A."
Of course he was. Because apparently the universe had decided to introduce her to a helpful stranger with upper body strength and a smile that could short-circuit rational thought—and then make him her next-door neighbor.
They had lunch that same day. Dafne offered as a thank-you. Jasper agreed like it was the most natural thing in the world. No awkward small talk, no weird silences—just easy conversation over pork BBQ, kimchi, and the kind of cheap Korean restaurant lighting that made everyone look better than they felt.
He was two years ahead, studying engineering. She was just starting architecture. She told him she hated numbers but loved buildings. He said he hated buildings but liked solving problems. Somehow, it made sense.
She learned his name—Jasper, like the stone.
He learned hers—Dafne, like the nymph who turned into a tree.
(It came up. It was a weird fact. They both laughed.)
Time, as it does when you're busy surviving deadlines and discovering you can't cook rice, moved fast. Six months passed in a blur of coffee-fueled nights and campus chaos.
They became a fixture in each other's routines.
Study sessions that turned into all-nighters.
Jasper helping her with calculus, her projects, her stress.
Jam sessions with his guitar and her voice, breaking the tension before exams.
Inside jokes. Shared playlists. Quiet conversations under shared skies.
Whatever this was—it worked.
Simple. Comfortable.
Safe.
But comfort has a way of hiding things.
And maybe—just maybe—things don't stay simple forever.