The first time Liya noticed Zen, he wasn't doing anything worth noticing.
He sat beneath a tree near the center of campus, sketchbook balanced against one knee, headphones loose around his neck. He wasn't performing. He wasn't posing. He wasn't aware of the way sunlight lingered on his shoulders, as if it had chosen him deliberately.
Liya slowed without meaning to.
The reaction came quietly—a subtle tightening beneath her ribs. Not excitement. Not attraction.
Recognition.
She frowned and forced herself to keep walking.
Get a grip.
She didn't believe in meaningless reactions. Feelings had causes. Interest followed logic.
This didn't.
And yet, long after she returned to her dorm, his presence lingered—like a thought she hadn't invited but couldn't dismiss.
Who is he?
The question followed her into the night.
She lay awake staring at the ceiling, listening to the building settle into silence.
It made no sense.
She had passed hundreds of people on campus that day. None of them had followed her home in memory. None of them had unsettled the careful balance she maintained between curiosity and control.
Zen had done nothing remarkable.
And yet the sensation remained.
Not meaningful—
Just… misplaced.
Over the next few days, she began noticing him everywhere.
In the cafeteria line, laughing with a friend who never seemed to run out of words.
On the courtyard benches, paint smudged faintly across his fingers as he sketched with quiet focus.
Crossing the quad, sunlight catching in his hair, expression open and unguarded.
Zen didn't command attention.
He simply occupied space differently.
Each time Liya spotted him, the same restrained pull returned—not urgent, not overwhelming, just persistent. Like a thread brushing against her awareness, asking to be acknowledged.
It unsettled her.
She wasn't someone who chased impulses.
So she told herself it was coincidence.
Their first conversation happened by accident.
Zen walked straight into a hallway display board. Papers scattered across the floor.
"Sorry—this thing ambushed me," he said, peeling a sheet off his face. "I swear it wasn't here five minutes ago."
Liya knelt to help before she could stop herself.
"Are you hurt?"
"Emotionally? Yes. Physically? Debatable. Spiritually? I've accepted my fate."
The laugh slipped out of her before she realized it.
Soft. Unguarded.
Zen looked up, eyes bright with easy warmth. No calculation. No expectation.
"I'm Zen."
"I know," she said—and immediately froze. "I mean—I've seen you around."
His grin widened. "Then it's only fair I learn your name."
"…Liya."
"Nice to meet you, Liya."
He said it simply.
And for reasons she didn't understand, the sound of her name lingered.
After that, things unfolded naturally.
Shared classes.
Group projects that included his endlessly talkative friend.
Short walks that turned into coffee without either of them formally asking.
Zen joked easily. Laughed often. Filled silence without effort.
Liya found herself responding despite her better judgment.
It wasn't romantic.
That was the problem.
Zen treated her the way he treated everyone else—with warmth that carried no expectation.
She didn't stand out to him.
But he stood out to her.
One afternoon, watching him sketch beneath the same tree, Liya felt the familiar tension settle beneath her ribs again.
Not longing.
Not desire.
Something quieter.
As if her heart recognized a pattern her mind refused to name.
She closed her notebook slowly.
Whatever this was, she wasn't ready to understand it.
But a thought surfaced—uninvited, unwelcome, impossible to ignore:
Meeting Zen hadn't felt random.
And someday—
whether she wanted it or not—
this feeling was going to ask something of her.