My vision was a blur, a haze of light and shadow, as if the world had been smeared with grease. I wanted to wake up, to shake off the weight pinning me down, but my body refused. It wasn't pain, not exactly—my limbs felt fine, my heart still beat—but my soul was heavy, tethered by some invisible thread that held me in place. A buzzing sound cut through the fog, sharp and insistent, like a wasp trapped in a jar. My phone was ringing, vibrating against the nightstand, demanding attention. I reached for it, but my hand was stiff, fingers locked as if bound by unseen chains. I rubbed my eyes, forcing them to focus, and there, on the screen, was her name: _Carla_. My heart lurched, a mix of warmth and disbelief. The date on the phone read August 20, 2022. I didn't know then, couldn't know, that three years later, on August 20, 2025, I would die. That knowledge was a shadow waiting in the future, unseen but looming.
I answered the call, my voice cracking as I said her name. "Carla?" Her voice came through, soft and teasing, laced with that familiar warmth that made my chest ache. "Lucas, where are you? You're late again, aren't you?" She laughed, and it was like sunlight breaking through clouds. We talked, our words weaving a quiet romance, her voice pulling me back to a world I thought I'd lost. She was waiting for me, outside my economics class at UC Santa Cruz, her patience a gift I didn't deserve. "Hurry up, Lucas," she said, her tone playful but firm. "I'm not standing here all day." I promised I'd be there, my heart racing as I clung to her voice like a lifeline.
I stumbled to the bathroom, splashing water on my face to shake off the strange weight in my bones. As I glanced out the window, I saw it—a raven, perched on a branch just outside. Its black pearl eyes glinted, unnatural, too aware, like it was watching me specifically. It wasn't like the other birds, the sparrows or finches that flitted through the trees. This one felt different, heavy with intent, as if it knew something I didn't. A chill ran through me, but I pushed it aside. Just a bird, I told myself, nothing more. I had to get to Carla.
I was late for class, as usual. Economics with Professor Hargrove, a man who loathed me as much as I despised him. We were like snake and scorpion, circling each other with venom ready. He'd never forgiven me for challenging him in front of the class last semester, and I'd never forgiven him for his smug arrogance. I hurried across campus, the coastal breeze of Santa Cruz carrying the faint scent of salt and pine. When I reached the lecture hall, Carla was there, leaning against the wall, her dark hair catching the sunlight. She wore a green sweater, her favorite, and a smile that made my knees weak. "Took you long enough," she teased, but her eyes were soft, forgiving.
The classroom door was already closed, Hargrove's voice droning from inside. I hesitated, knowing he'd make a scene if I walked in late. Carla rolled her eyes, grabbing my hand. "Come on, Lucas, I've got this." She pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, pulling me along. Hargrove's head snapped up, his glasses glinting as he prepared to pounce, but Carla was faster. "Sorry, Professor," she said, her voice smooth as honey. "I asked Lucas to help me with a project before class. My fault we're late." She flashed a smile, all charm and confidence, and Hargrove's scowl faltered. He muttered something about punctuality but waved us to our seats. Carla's hand lingered in mine as we sat, her touch a quiet promise that she had my back. I stole a glance at her, her profile sharp and perfect against the classroom's fluorescent lights, and felt a warmth I hadn't known since my mother's death.
The class dragged on, Hargrove's lecture a dull hum about supply and demand. I barely heard it, my eyes fixed on Carla. She scribbled notes, her pen moving with purpose, but every so often, she'd glance at me, her lips curving into a secret smile. Time blurred—two, maybe three hours lost in her presence, her laughter, the way her fingers brushed mine when she passed me a pen. She was my anchor, my reason to keep going, and for those hours, the weight of my past felt lighter.
When class ended, we decided to head to Verve Coffee Roasters, the one on Pacific Avenue, just a short walk from campus. Carla's childhood friend Zoya joined us, a whirlwind of energy with a phone glued to her hand, snapping photos for her Instagram. Zoya was an influencer, her life a curated gallery of perfect moments, but she was kind, her laughter infectious. The three of us sat at a corner table, the air thick with the smell of roasted coffee and the hum of conversation. Carla ordered a latte, Zoya a cold brew, and I stuck with black coffee, bitter and strong, like my mood sometimes felt.
The café was crowded, a mix of students and locals, but the mood shifted when a loud voice cut through the chatter. A girl, young, maybe a freshman, was arguing with a man at a nearby table. He was older, broad-shouldered, his face red with anger as he leaned toward her, his voice sharp. "You don't know what you're talking about," he snapped, jabbing a finger at her. "Your generation's too soft to understand real politics." The girl held her ground, but her voice trembled, her words faltering under his bullying. It was about some political agenda—taxes or healthcare, I couldn't tell—but his tone was cruel, meant to humiliate.
I tried to ignore it, focusing on Carla's hand resting near mine, but the girl's eyes, wide with hurt, caught me. I couldn't stay silent. I stood, my chair scraping the floor, and stepped toward their table. "Hey," I said, my voice low but firm. "Back off. She's got a right to her opinion without you acting like a jerk." The man turned, his eyes narrowing, sizing me up. "Mind your business, kid," he growled, but I didn't flinch. "It's everyone's business when you're bullying someone half your size," I shot back. "You don't get to make her feel small just because you're louder." The café went quiet, heads turning. Carla's hand touched my arm, a silent _steady_, but I kept my eyes on him. He muttered something, grabbed his coffee, and stormed out, the bell above the door jangling in his wake. The girl mumbled a quiet "thanks," her face flushed, and I nodded, returning to our table.
Carla's eyes were on me, proud but worried. "You didn't have to do that," she said softly, but her smile said she was glad I did. Zoya snapped a photo, grinning. "That's going on my story. Hero Lucas." I rolled my eyes, but the warmth of Carla's gaze made my chest swell.
It was getting late, the sky outside turning a bruised purple. I offered to walk Carla and Zoya back to their apartment near campus. The air felt strange, heavy, like a storm was brewing, but not the usual Santa Cruz fog. It was something deeper, a pressure I couldn't name, like the world was holding its breath. I'd felt it before, maybe in dreams or quiet moments, but I couldn't place it. As we walked, Carla's hand slipped into mine, her fingers warm against the growing chill. Zoya chattered about her next post, oblivious to the shift in the air. I glanced back once, half-expecting to see that raven again, its black pearl eyes watching. But the street was empty, the world silent except for the echo of our steps and the distant rumble of thunder.