Chapter 2 : Calmness
The heat of the slap still lingered in the air. Students were now forming a circle around the trio, like spectators at an impromptu boxing match. Shouts flew like sparks. Some yelled at Henry. Others backed him. But Jane? Jane said nothing.
She stood still—expression unreadable, phone clenched in her hand like a shield.
The guy Henry had slapped—bigger, broader, angrier—shook off his friends and lunged forward. But before fists could fly again, campus security appeared from nowhere, cutting through the crowd like a blade.
"Enough!" one officer barked. "Everyone, clear this area before you find yourselves in serious trouble."
Henry took a deep breath and backed off. His pulse was still pounding in his ears, his jaw tight. He looked at Jane one last time—but she wasn't looking back. Her eyes were on the other guy, her hand on his arm as if to calm him.
So that's where I stand, Henry thought bitterly.
Later that day, Henry sat at a quiet corner of the campus café, staring into his untouched bottle of soda. His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He hesitated. Then picked up.
"Hello?"
"It's Jane."
He blinked. "Jane?"
"I didn't mean for things to go that far," she said. Her voice was low, softer than it had been in the lobby. "I just wanted to say... sorry."
Henry's heart gave a small, involuntary leap.
"No, I— I'm the one who overreacted. I shouldn't have lost it like that."
There was silence on the line. Then she spoke again.
"He's not my boyfriend. He just acts like he owns everyone's space. I didn't like how he behaved either."
That one sentence hit Henry like cool water on a burn.
"I thought you... never mind. So, you're okay?"
"I am. Are you?"
"I've been better," Henry said with a chuckle. "But hearing from you helps."
"I've got a lecture now," she said. "But maybe... we could talk later? Just talk."
"Yeah," Henry said. "I'd like that."
The line went dead. But the silence that followed wasn't empty anymore.
Two days later, the campus had already moved on. Fights were common, gossip was cheap, and no one had time to remember who threw the first punch unless it went viral. But Henry remembered.
He remembered because Jane had agreed to meet him.
She arrived just five minutes late, in a burgundy top and high-waisted jeans, her curly hair let down today. No phone in her hand. No audience. Just her.
They sat under the large almond tree near the Law faculty. The world moved around them, but in their little bubble, time slowed.
They talked. About classes. About how she hated group projects. About how he secretly wanted to be a writer, not a lawyer.
"You don't seem clueless anymore," Jane said with a faint smile.
Henry laughed. "That's the irony. I still am. Just... less scared to admit it now."
She smiled. A real one this time. Not distracted. Not forced. Real.
And in that moment, he felt it—the shift. Something small and quiet, but undeniable.
The days blurred together like brushstrokes on a painting—class, café, calls, and unexpected laughter.
What began with a name spoken by chance had now become a rhythm between Henry and Jane. They weren't "a thing," not officially.
But when she wasn't around, he noticed. When he laughed, he waited to see if she did too. And when she spoke, even in passing, it always felt like it mattered.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when Jane texted him:
"Can we take a walk? I don't feel like being around anyone else."
They met by the old library steps, where few students ever lingered. She wore a grey hoodie and no makeup this time, her eyes slightly puffy, her lips pressed tight.
Henry didn't ask what was wrong. He just nodded, and together they walked in silence down a quiet path behind the engineering block, where only birds and fallen leaves stirred.
"I had a call from home," she said finally.
Henry glanced sideways. "Bad news?"
She hesitated. "My mom's been sick a while. She hides it from me, tries to sound strong. But today… she slipped. I heard the weakness in her voice."
He didn't speak. He knew the weight of words like that. Instead, he slowed his steps, brushing his hand gently against hers.
She didn't pull away.
"I hate that I'm here—laughing, attending lectures, eating chicken pie—while she's trying to breathe through pain."
"You're not selfish for living," Henry said softly. "She'd want you to be okay."
They reached a small bench under a jacaranda tree. Purple petals had started falling around it like gentle rain. Jane sat, her back slouched, staring at nothing.
"My dad left when I was ten," she said. "She raised me alone. Never begged anyone for anything. Worked two jobs. Sometimes three. But now…"
Henry sat beside her. "Now it's your turn to be her strength."
She nodded slowly, then turned toward him. "And what about you? You always ask about me. But you—you smile a lot, but it feels like there's something you're covering."
He didn't respond right away.
"I was in love once," he said at last. "First year. Thought it was the real thing. She cheated on me with someone in my faculty—someone I thought was a friend."
Jane's eyes narrowed. "That's... awful."
"It messed me up," he continued. "I stopped trusting easily. Built this wall of jokes and confidence around me. But you…" He looked at her. "You make me forget the wall's even there."
Jane's lips parted slightly, caught between surprise and something else—something fragile.
"I feel safe with you," she whispered.
He smiled. "Me too."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was full—of unspoken truths, shared wounds, and growing warmth. A breeze rustled the petals above them, and one landed on Jane's knee. She looked down, then at him.
"I like this bench," she said.
"I ..."
Her laughter came gently, like a healing balm. Then, she reached for his hand—not by accident this time.
And held it.