He swung his bag over his shoulder and stepped out the door, the crisp morning air brushing against his yellow fur. The streets were already alive with movement—many familiar species moving between the blocks. It was a world he had always known, yet today it felt different, sharper, more immediate.
The train station wasn't far. He moved with practiced steps, avoiding puddles and distracted pedestrians alike. Despite his lean frame, he carried himself with quiet determination. It wasn't excitement, exactly, but something steadier—a sense that today marked the first page of something bigger.
He reached the platform just as the train screeched to a stop, metal wheels singing against the rails. Adults crowded in, some chatting while others were silent, tails brushing against one another. He found a corner and leaned against the cool metal wall, letting the familiar motion of the train steady him in a way nothing else quite did. Cyan eyes scanning the passing city, he couldn't help but notice how small the streets looked from this perspective, how fast life moved outside the glass.
Tomorrow, maybe, he'd feel more at home here. But today was about learning to step into a place he hadn't quite lived in yet, surrounded by others just as strange and ordinary as him.
The gentle rhythm of the train soon proved too soothing for his body. He rested his head on the glass, and before long, his eyes slipped shut. The hum of the engine and the muffled chatter around him faded into a soft lullaby, and he drifted into sleep.
In his dream, high school stretched before him like a long, winding hallway. He saw himself younger, sitting at a desk while classmates around him laughed, argued, or hurried past. He remembered the awkward glances, the moments of trying to fit in, and the quiet isolation that came from being... different.
He had always been a quiet bear, speaking only when necessary, careful with his words. Socializing didn't come that easily, and even when he tried, he often felt out of step with others. He had friends once—friends he had genuinely cared for—but over time, they drifted away, lost interest, or simply left him behind. It had been... painful. People could be cruel and selfish, and those memories still lingered, a subtle ache beneath his calm exterior.
For a long moment in the dream, he wondered if being selfless was pointless. Maybe it was better to keep himself. Maybe he was wrong. Either way, he had learned that the world didn't always reward with kindness, and life had a way of testing patience—and heart.
He shook his head lightly in the dream, his expression softened with something like quiet resignation. The hallways blurred around him, voices fading into a dull hum, and the faces of those who had once mattered slipped from the view. For a moment, he felt a familiar ache of loneliness, but it was softer now, tempered by the quiet understanding that life moved forward, whether he liked it or not. And then, as if nudged by the gentle sway of the train, the memory dissolved entirely, leaving him suspended in the present, the hum of the engine and the city rushing past outside the window pulling him back from what felt like "yesterday" into today.
He blinked slowly, the last remaining remnants of his dream fading as he straightened against the train wall. The city outside had slipped by almost unnoticed, a blur of rooftops, streetlights, and passing pedestrians. With a slow breath, he adjusted his strap of his bag and shifted to his feet as the train began to slow.
The college station was surprisingly big and busy, a mix of adult students, commuters, and others just passing through. He stepped off carefully, yellow fur brushing against the strap of his bag as he navigated the crowd. Despite the noise, he moved deliberately, taking in small details: the worn metal handrails, the faint smell of coffee drifting from a nearby cart, the chatter of students as they compared schedules and shared morning jokes. Some jokes were either playful, lewd, or simply awful—like dad jokes.
He had seen college from the outside before, but stepping onto the campus grounds felt different. Everything seemed larger—way larger, older, and somehow more serious. In fact, it looked well maintained, almost meticulously so. Stone walls climbed higher than he remembered, ivy curling along the edges, and gates loomed like silent sentinels welcoming—or challenging—anyone who entered. He hugged his bag a little closer and adjusted his posture, trying to shake off the heaviness that followed him into unfamiliar places.
Passing groups of students, he caught a glimpse of tails swishing, feathers brushing against shoulders, and fur of every shade and pattern imaginable. Some glanced at him briefly, others ignored him completely. He didn't mind; interactions have never been his strong suit. Instead, he focused on finding the building marked for third-year class, his eyes scanning the signs while his mind drifted to the schedule he had memorized the night before.
A small part of him felt a twinge of anticipation—this was his first day at a different college. His last college hadn't been particularly special, and the thought of starting fresh brought a quiet relief. This campus felt more alive, and better suited for the work he wanted to accomplish in his major. He decided to head to the student advisor's office first, hoping to get settled and make sense of the schedules and requirements that would guide his next steps.
He made his way steadily toward the advisor's office, navigating the hallways with practiced care. He scanned the signs once more, guiding him with a quiet focus, as he moved with a deliberate calm that contrasted with the bustling students around him. The closer he got, the more anticipation grew within his spark.
As he got to his destination, he reached the door of the student advisor's office and paused for a moment, taking a settled breath. The room beyond was small and tidy, papers stacked neatly on shelves and a single desk near the center. Behind the desk sat a male cougar with sleek, tawny fur and sharp amber eyes. He looked up, his expression calm but attentive.
"Good morning," he said, his voice deeply warm but professional. "I recognized you through your files, you must be... Freddie Bearlyn, correct?"
Freddie's mind registered the name—it sounded almost cute, a choice his parents made—adding a first name that complemented his last name. Maybe it was almost too "perfect".
Freddie nodded silently, then the cougar smile softened, his eyes dimming slightly, "I'm Mr. Kallis, your student advisor. Have a seat, love-one."
Freddie nodded again and lowered himself into the chair across from him, careful not to fidget too much. He adjusted his bag on his lap and met the cougar's gaze briefly, eyes steady but calm.
"Morning..." he said softly.
Mr. Kallis blinked subtly, a small, surprised crease in his brow. Freddie's voice—quiet, controlled, and strangely melodic—caught him off guard in a way he hadn't expected. He quickly returned the smile, tapping a pen against the desk.
"Alright," he said, his tone professional again, though a flicker of curiosity remained. "Let's go over your schedule and make sure everything is correctly set up for your major."
For about ten minutes, Mr. Kallis explained the school's offers, though Freddie already knew all of that information over the phone. He had to reassure his students if they were aware or not.
Mr. Kallis gave him a slip of paper of the school's time, and what places around the campus are available. Freddie studied it carefully, eyes tracing the list of times. The names felt unfamiliar, yet promising—each one a small step toward the future he had quietly hoped for. He folded the paper neatly and tucked it into his bag, making sure it was secure.
"Looks like you're all set," Mr. Kallis said with an encouraging nod. "Take it one step at a time, son. College can be overwhelming, but you'll find your rhythm."
Freddie nodded in return. "Thank you," he said softly, his voice steady despite the lingering nerves in his chest. Rising from the chair, he adjusted his bag and offered a small, respectful smile before turning to the door. It was a rare smile, something he'd never do again.
The hallway outside was busy with movement and noise—students laughing, footsteps echoing, conversations overlapping—but Freddie didn't hesitate. He took a slow breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle into something manageable. This was his path now. Quietly, deliberately, he stepped forward, following the schedule in his bag and the steady pull of a new beginning.