Morning, 6:45AM
Jericho woke before sunrise, the soft hum of his alarm vibrating against the silence of his apartment. He lay still for a moment, eyes open, watching the faint glow of the city filter through the sheer curtains. The twelfth floor offered quiet—no honking, no shouting, just the distant rhythm of Saint Louis waking up.
He sat up slowly, stretching his arms overhead. His body felt rested, his mind clear. Today felt like a good day.
The shower was cool and bracing, steam curling around the matte black tiles. He stood beneath the stream, letting the water run down his back, washing away the weight of yesterday's shift at Best Buy. The scent of mint and cedar lingered in the air, grounding him.
After drying off, he moved to his closet—organized by color, season, and mood. Today called for baby blue. He pulled out a soft jogger set, zipped up the matching jacket, and slipped on lemon-yellow sneakers. The colors were calm, clean, quietly bold.
He checked himself in the mirror. Crisp lines. Focused energy.
7:15 AM — Drive to Campus
The 2023 Ford Escape SE purred to life as Jericho slid into the driver's seat. The black exterior gleamed under the morning sun, and the interior smelled faintly of bergamot and leather. He tapped the navigation screen, queued up a playlist of lo-fi jazz, and pulled out of the garage.
The drive to Saint Louis University was smooth. The streets were quiet, the trees lining Lindell Boulevard swaying gently in the breeze. Jericho rolled down the window halfway, letting the cool air brush against his face. He felt good. Focused. Ready.
8:00 AM — Business Class
Jericho walked into the business building, nodding politely at the receptionist. His first class was in Room 204—a lecture on strategic planning and market behavior.
"Jericho!" Professor Langston greeted warmly. "Glad to see you."
Jericho nodded. "Morning, Professor."
He took his usual seat near the front, pulling out his lemon-yellow notebook and black pen. The lecture was engaging, and Jericho asked two thoughtful questions that made the professor beam.
Langston leaned against the podium. "You always bring the sharpest insights. Keep it up."
Jericho gave a small smile. "Trying."
9:30 AM — Mathematics
The math building was quieter, tucked between the science labs and the library. Jericho entered Room 112, where Professor Chen was already setting up.
"Ah, Mr. M," she said with a smile. "Always early."
Jericho smiled faintly. "Wouldn't miss it."
They dove into calculus—derivatives, limits, and real-world applications. Jericho's notes were meticulous, his focus unwavering. He solved problems with quiet precision, his mind moving like clockwork.
Professor Chen paused mid-lecture. "Jericho, would you mind walking us through your approach?"
He stood, walked to the board, and explained his method with calm clarity. The class watched, impressed.
11:00 AM — Geometry
Jericho extra credit class. He didn't need it but he took the class anyway.
Geometry was held in a sunlit room with wide windows and whiteboards that stretched across the walls. Professor Albright greeted Jericho with a fist bump.
"Ready to conquer triangles?"
"Always," Jericho replied.
They worked through proofs and spatial reasoning. Jericho's mind moved quickly, solving problems before most students had finished reading them. Albright nodded approvingly.
"You've got a gift for structure," he said.
Jericho shrugged. "I like patterns."
---
12:30 PM — Lunch Break
The cafeteria buzzed with life—students laughing, scrolling, half-asleep over trays of pizza and salad. Jericho moved past the crowd, tray in hand, and settled into a quiet corner near the back. He preferred solitude during lunch. It gave him time to read.
He opened a slim paperback—The Psychology of Design—and began underlining passages in pencil. His tray held grilled chicken, brown rice, and a bottle of spring water. Simple. Clean.
He was halfway through a chapter on emotional architecture when a soft voice interrupted.
"Excuse me," the voice said.
Jericho looked up.
A young woman stood beside his table, tray in hand. She was beautiful—striking in a way that felt gentle, not loud. Her 4C afro was shaped into a perfect fro, a light brown teddy bear plush clip nestled right above her right ear. She wore a white skirt, a light yellow polo shirt tucked in neatly, white slip-on sneakers, and black-out tights that hugged her legs. She carried a red backpack with a pepperoni plushie keychain connected to her front zipper.
Her face was soft, baby-like—almond-shaped dark brown eyes, glossy pink lips, and a quiet curiosity in her gaze.
Her nails were painted in a playful gradient colors—pastel pink, white, light green, yellow, and baby blue on her left hand. Her right hand was all white polish, clean and bright.
"Mind if I sit here?" she asked.
Jericho blinked once, then nodded. "Yeah, you can sit here."
She smiled. "Thanks."
She slid into the seat across from him, setting her tray down. A salad, a cup of fruit, and a bottle of mango juice.
Jericho returned to his book, but his eyes flicked up once more. She was already looking at him.
Jericho watched her settle into the seat across from him, her tray quiet against the table. She took a sip of mango juice, then glanced at his book.
"You like psychology?" she asked, voice soft but clear.
Jericho nodded. "Design psychology. How people respond to space, color, layout."
"That's cool," she said, smiling. "I'm studying early childhood development. Colors and space matter a lot to kids too."
He closed the book gently, giving her his full attention. "What's your name?"
"Zaria," she said. "Zaria Monroe."
Jericho repeated it once in his mind. It suited her—gentle, rhythmic, warm.
"I'm Jericho," he said.
"I know," she replied, eyes twinkling. "You're kind of famous in the business class."
Jericho raised an eyebrow. "That's a stretch."
She laughed, the sound light and unguarded. "I've had two classes with you. You always sit near the front or back sometimes, ask good questions, leave before anyone else can talk to you."
Jericho leaned back slightly. "I like the quietness."
"I do too," Zaria said.
They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. Zaria picked at her salad, her nails catching the light as she moved. Jericho noticed how her fingers curled gently around the fork, how her teddy bear clip bobbed slightly when she chewed.
"My mom used to do my hair every Sunday," she said suddenly. "Four hours of detangling, twisting, and talking. She passed last year. I keep the bear clip because she gave it to me when I was 15."
Jericho didn't speak right away. He nodded, respectful of the weight in her voice.
"She sounds like someone who made things beautiful," he said.
"She did," Zaria whispered. "She was a preschool teacher. Taught me how to see the world through softness."
Jericho glanced down at his book, then back at her. "You remind me of that."
Zaria smiled, eyes glossy but bright. "Thanks."
Thanom sat in the lounge outside of the science classroom, legs stretched out, laptop balanced on his thighs. He'd just finished his last class of the day—culinary—and his arms still ached from kneading dough. His croissants hadn't puffed the way he wanted. Too warm in the kitchen. Butter melted too fast.
He sighed, tapping at his keyboard. A draft business plan for his future bakery filled the screen. He'd named it Morning Threads—a nod to his mother's habit of tying heart-shaped strings around fresh pastries for special customers.
His phone buzzed. A message from his father in Thailand.
> Your mother made pandan rolls today. She misses you.
Thanom stared at the message for a long moment. The ache in his chest was familiar now—like a quiet echo of home.
He packed up his things and headed toward the campus shuttle. As he passed the cafeteria windows, he spotted Jericho in the far corner, seated across from a girl with a fro and a teddy bear clip.
Thanom paused.
Jericho was smiling.
It wasn't wide, but it was real.
Thanom felt something stir in his chest—curiosity, maybe. Or envy. Or just the quiet realization that even the most unreadable people had pages waiting to be turned.
He kept walking.
Thanom kicked off his sneakers and sank into the soft cushions of his couch, the hum of his apartment settling around him like a blanket. The Oliver Apartments were quiet tonight—just the occasional sound of a neighbor's door closing, the distant hum of traffic from downtown Saint Louis.
He reached for the remote and turned on the TV, flipping through channels until he landed on a cooking show. A cheerful host was piping vanilla cream into a row of éclairs, her voice bright and soothing. Thanom watched absently, his mind elsewhere.
He couldn't stop thinking about the girl he'd seen in the cafeteria.
She'd been sitting across from Jericho—of all people. Jericho, the quiet storm in every classroom, the one who never lingered, never laughed, never let anyone in. And yet, there he was, leaning slightly forward, listening. Smiling.
Thanom had only caught a glimpse, but it was enough.
She had tight, soft curls shaped into a perfect afro. A teddy bear plush clip, light brown against the dark crown of her hair. Her outfit was gentle and bright: a white skirt, a tucked-in yellow polo shirt, black-out tights, and white slip-on sneakers. She looked like spring personified—fresh, warm, and quietly radiant.
Thanom muted the TV and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"Who was she?" he murmured.
He tried to piece it together. She wasn't in any of his classes. He would've remembered her—those almond-shaped eyes, glossy pink lips, and the playful nail polish that danced across her fingers like a pastel rainbow. She didn't seem like someone who blended in. She seemed like someone who left a trail of softness wherever she went.
Was she a psychology major? An artist? Maybe she worked in early childhood education—she had that kind of warmth. Or maybe she was just someone who saw Jericho and didn't flinch.
Thanom sat up, grabbed his IPhone 17, and opened the student directory app. He didn't know her name, but maybe he could search by major. He paused. What was he even doing?
He closed the app and tossed the phone aside.
It wasn't jealousy exactly. It was curiosity. Jericho had always been a mystery—sharp, distant, untouchable. But today, Thanom had seen something different. A flicker of connection. A moment of softness.
He turned the TV volume back up. The host was now sprinkling powdered sugar over a tray of lemon tarts.
Thanom smiled faintly.
He didn't know who she was. Not yet.
But he had a feeling she was going to matter.