"Angela!"
I spun around at the sound of my name, my pulse racing before my mind could catch up. Standing just a few steps behind me was Gael—my crush. The boy who once made the world feel lighter, softer, just by existing in it.
"What?" I asked, trying to sound casual, though my voice betrayed me with a nervous tremor.
He stepped closer, so close I could feel the warmth radiating off him. My breath hitched.
"You're beautiful," he whispered, his words sinking into me like sunlight through glass.
And then he was gone—turning, walking away as if nothing had happened, leaving me standing in the hallway, stunned, my heart beating too fast.
"Angela!"
This time the voice wasn't his. It was sharper, louder, pulling me harshly back into reality. My little brother stood in the doorway to my room, hair messy, still in his pajamas.
"What?" I snapped, far more irritated than I meant to.
"You keep saying his name in your sleep," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
The sting hit immediately. My throat tightened, and before I could stop it, a tear slipped down my cheek. Three years had passed since Gael died in that car accident, but his name still lingered on my lips, like a wound that refused to heal.
I swallowed hard, pushing the ache back down where it belonged. "Go back to bed," I muttered.
By morning, I was already late. Again.
I raced across campus, my bag thudding against my hip, dodging students until—
Wham!
I collided with someone so hard my books and papers flew across the pavement.
"Sorry!" I gasped, dropping to the ground. My hands fumbled as I shoved notebooks back into my bag, heat rushing up my neck. I didn't dare look at the stranger I'd just plowed into.
"Wait—" he started, but I was already bolting toward the lecture hall.
By evening, exhaustion clung to me like a second skin. But going home wasn't an option. Not yet.
The coffee shop buzzed with its usual Friday-night chaos. I tied my apron, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and pushed through the crowd of customers with a tray in hand.
"Angela, table four," one of my coworkers called.
Balancing the drinks, I wove between tables until I reached the corner booth.
"Here's your order," I said, setting everything down.
The man looked up at me, his gaze steady. Recognition jolted through me—the guy I'd slammed into that morning.
"Angela, right?" His mouth curved into the hint of a smirk.
"Yes…" My voice was cautious.
"You still owe me something," he said lightly, as if the thought amused him.
I blinked. "Me?"
"You don't remember?" His smirk deepened.
And then it clicked—the collision, my papers everywhere, me running off like a fool.
"Oh God." My cheeks heated. "That was you."
"So you do remember." His eyes glimmered with something unreadable.
"I'm sorry," I blurted. "I was late for class and—"
He leaned back in his seat, watching me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
"Relax," he said finally, voice smooth, almost teasing. "I'm not here to collect a debt."
His gaze lingered a second too long, as if he was memorizing me. Then, with the faintest grin, he added:
"Maybe just a name. Yours."