The flight
had taken fourteen hours. The bus from Heathrow to Oxford, another two. Altair
had been awake for thirty-six hours straight, and every bone in his body felt
like it was made of lead.
But he
couldn't sleep. Not yet.
He stood
outside the entrance to Christ Church College, staring up at the medieval
architecture like it was a monument to everything he wasn't. Stone towers that
had existed for five hundred years. Carved archways that had seen generations
of brilliant minds walk through them. A legacy so heavy it seemed to press down
on the air itself.
And here he
was. A kid from a country most people here probably couldn't locate on a map
without squinting.
What the
hell am I doing here?
The
acceptance letter was folded in his jacket pocket. He'd read it so many times
over the past three months that the creases were starting to tear. Congratulations
on your admission to the University of Oxford. Your research proposal on
quantum probability field manipulation demonstrated exceptional insight...
Exceptional
insight. That's what they'd called it.
He'd written
that proposal at 3 AM, fueled by instant coffee and desperation, because
staying in his country meant watching his potential rot away in a system that
didn't care about kids like him. Oxford had been a Hail Mary. A
one-in-a-million shot.
And somehow,
impossibly, it had worked.
But standing
here now, watching students in expensive coats and perfectly styled hair walk
past him like they owned the place—because in a way, they did—he felt like a
fraud.
"Excuse
me, mate," a voice said behind him.
Altair
turned. A guy around his age, blonde hair, polo shirt, boat shoes—the kind of
outfit that screamed I summer in the Hamptons—was standing there with an
irritated expression.
"You're
blocking the entrance," the guy said, not unkindly, but not warmly either.
Just... stating a fact.
"Oh.
Sorry." Altair stepped aside quickly.
The guy
nodded and walked past, already pulling out his phone and laughing at something
on the screen. He didn't look back.
Right.
Invisible. That's the goal. Stay invisible.
Altair
picked up his duffel bag—everything he owned fit into one bag—and walked
through the archway into the college courtyard.
It was
beautiful. Painfully so. Manicured lawns. Gothic windows. A fountain in the
center that looked like it belonged in a period drama. Students were scattered
across the quad, some sitting on benches reading, others walking in groups,
laughing about things Altair couldn't hear.
He felt like
an alien.
Just get
to your room. Unpack. Figure out what the hell you're supposed to do next.
He checked
the crumpled paper in his hand—room assignment, Staircase 7, Room 3—and started
walking.
The room
was smaller than he'd expected.
A single
bed. A desk by the window. A wardrobe that smelled faintly of mothballs. The
walls were bare except for a small mirror and a smoke detector that looked like
it had been installed sometime in the 1980s.
It was
perfect.
Altair
dropped his duffel bag on the bed and sat down, the springs creaking under his
weight. He stared at the wall for a long moment, trying to process the fact
that this was real. He was here. At Oxford. One of the best universities in the
world.
And he had
absolutely no idea what he was doing.
His phone
buzzed. A message from his mom.
Did you
arrive safely? Please let me know you're okay.
He typed
back quickly. Yeah. I'm here. Room's good. I'm fine.
Another
buzz. I'm proud of you.
Altair's
throat tightened. He stared at the message for a long time before locking his
phone and tossing it onto the desk.
Don't
think about that. Not now.
He unpacked
mechanically. Clothes in the wardrobe. Laptop on the desk. A photo of his
family—his mom, his younger sister, him at fifteen before everything got
complicated—tucked into the corner of the mirror.
Then he sat
back down on the bed and realized he had no idea what to do next.
Orientation
wasn't until tomorrow. He didn't know anyone. Didn't know where anything was.
The college had sent a welcome packet, but it was full of information about
formal dinners and societies and traditions that felt designed for people who
already understood how this world worked.
He pulled
out a cigarette from the pack he'd bought at Heathrow. Lit it. Took a drag.
The smoke
alarm didn't go off. Small mercies.
One day
at a time. Just... one day at a time.
That
evening, Altair went to the dining hall.
It was a
mistake.
The hall
itself was stunning—long wooden tables, high ceilings, portraits of dead
scholars staring down from the walls. It looked like something out of Harry
Potter, which made sense because he was pretty sure they'd filmed some of those
movies here.
But the
people.
God, the
people.
Everyone
seemed to already know each other. Clusters of students laughing, talking,
passing plates of food like they'd been doing this for years. Conversations
about summer holidays in Italy, internships at their parents' firms, rowing
teams and debate societies.
Altair
grabbed a tray, filled it with whatever food was closest, and found an empty
seat at the far end of one of the tables.
He ate
quickly, eyes down, trying not to draw attention.
Across from
him, a group of guys were talking loudly.
"—so I
told him, if he wanted me to join his lab, he'd have to actually pay me this
time. I'm not doing free research for some washed-up professor—"
Laughter.
"God,
you're such an asshole, James."
"I'm
REALISTIC. We're at Oxford. We should be compensated for our brilliance."
More
laughter.
Altair kept
his head down, chewing mechanically. The food tasted like cardboard, but he
wasn't sure if that was the food or just his anxiety.
"Hey,
you're new, right?"
Altair
looked up. One of the guys—tall, dark hair, friendly smile—was looking at him.
"Uh.
Yeah. First day."
"Thought
so. Haven't seen you around." The guy extended his hand across the table.
"I'm Oliver. Third year. Physics."
Altair shook
his hand. "Altair. First year. Also physics."
"Altair?
That's a cool name. Foreign?"
"Yeah."
"Where
from?"
Altair
hesitated. This was always the awkward part. "Far away. You probably
haven't heard of it."
Oliver
laughed. "Try me."
Altair named
his country.
Oliver
blinked. "Oh. Uh. Yeah, you're right. I don't really know where that is.
Sorry, mate."
"It's
fine. Most people don't."
"Well,
welcome to Oxford. Fair warning—first year physics is brutal. But you'll
survive." Oliver glanced at his friends, who were already back to their
own conversation. "If you need help with anything, just ask around. People
here are mostly decent. Mostly."
"Thanks."
Oliver
nodded and turned back to his group.
Altair
finished his food in silence, then stood up, returned his tray, and left.
Outside, the
air was cool. He walked aimlessly through the college grounds, hands in his
pockets, trying to shake the feeling that he'd just made a huge mistake coming
here.
You don't
belong. You're not like them. You never will be.
He found a
bench near the edge of the quad, sat down, and pulled out another cigarette.
This time,
he let himself sit there for a while, watching the sky fade from blue to orange
to dark purple. Students walked past, laughing, chatting, living their lives.
And Altair
sat alone, smoking, wondering if he'd ever feel like he belonged anywhere.
The next
morning, Altair woke up to his alarm blaring.
Orientation
day.
He dragged
himself out of bed, showered in the communal bathroom down the hall—thankfully
empty—and got dressed. Jeans. A plain black t-shirt. His worn leather jacket
that had seen better days but still fit perfectly.
He looked at
himself in the mirror.
You've
got this. Just... blend in. Don't draw attention. Get through the day.
Orientation
was held in one of the lecture halls. Altair slipped in quietly and found a
seat near the back, away from the clusters of students who were already
chatting like old friends.
A professor
stood at the front, droning on about academic expectations, college traditions,
support services. Altair tried to pay attention but his mind kept wandering.
What if I
can't keep up? What if I'm not actually smart enough for this place? What if
they realize they made a mistake admitting me?
"—and
remember, if you're struggling, don't hesitate to reach out. We want all of our
students to succeed."
Sure. Easy
to say.
After the
lecture, there was a "mixer" in the common room. Coffee and biscuits.
A chance to meet your cohort.
Altair
lasted ten minutes.
Everyone was
networking, exchanging numbers, forming study groups. He stood in the corner,
holding a cup of coffee he didn't drink, watching.
A girl with
red hair and a posh accent was talking loudly about her A-level results. A guy
in a blazer was handing out business cards—business cards, at eighteen—for
some investment club he was starting.
Altair set
down his coffee and left.
He found
himself outside the Physics Department.
It was a
newer building compared to the rest of the college—1960s brutalist
architecture, all concrete and narrow windows. Not beautiful, but functional.
Altair stood
there for a moment, staring at the entrance.
This is
why you're here. Not for the social shit. Not to fit in. For THIS. For physics.
For the work.
He pulled
out the acceptance letter from his pocket, unfolded it, and read it again.
Your
research proposal on quantum probability field manipulation demonstrated
exceptional insight and creativity. We believe you have significant potential
to contribute to the field.
Potential.
That's all
it was. Potential. Not proof. Not certainty.
Just...
potential.
He folded
the letter back up and pulled out a cigarette.
"You
know those kill you, right?"
Altair
froze.
The voice
came from behind him. Female. Warm. Slightly amused.
He turned
around slowly.
A girl was
standing there, maybe five feet away, holding a stack of textbooks. She had
soft features, kind eyes, and a small smile playing at the corner of her lips.
Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and she wore an oversized sweater that
looked comfortable and lived-in.
She didn't
look like the other students he'd seen. She looked... real.
"So
does overthinking," Altair said finally, recovering. "Pick your
poison."
She
laughed—a genuine, warm sound—and walked closer. "Fair point."
She sat down
on the bench next to him without asking, setting her textbooks on her lap.
Altair
stared at her, cigarette still unlit in his hand.
"First
day?" she asked, glancing at him.
"Second.
Technically." He lit the cigarette, took a drag. "First day was
yesterday. Didn't go great."
"Let me
guess. Orientation mixer?"
"How'd
you know?"
"Because
I left after ten minutes too." She grinned. "Everyone trying way too
hard to be impressive. It's exhausting."
Altair felt
something in his chest loosen. "Yeah. Exactly."
They sat in
silence for a moment. It wasn't awkward. Just... quiet.
"You
look like you're waiting for someone to tell you this was all a prank,"
she said eventually.
Altair let
out a bitter laugh. "That's exactly what it feels like."
"Don't
worry. Everyone feels like that. Even the rich kids pretending they
don't." She gestured to the buildings around them. "Oxford's good at
making people feel like imposters. Part of its charm, apparently."
"Doesn't
feel very charming."
"Give
it time." She shifted the textbooks on her lap. "What are you
studying?"
"Physics.
Undergrad. Quantum mechanics focus."
Her eyes lit
up. "No way. Me too."
"Really?"
"Yeah.
First year. I'm Yuna, by the way." She extended her hand.
"Altair."
She paused,
hand still extended. "Like the star?"
He blinked,
surprised. Most people didn't make that connection. "Yeah. Exactly."
"Beautiful
name." She smiled wider. "Welcome to Oxford,
Altair-like-the-star."
He shook her
hand. Her grip was warm. Steady. The contact lasted maybe three seconds, but
something about it felt... significant.
"Thanks,"
he said quietly.
She released
his hand and leaned back against the bench, looking up at the sky. "So.
Quantum mechanics. What made you want to study that?"
Altair took
another drag, considering. "I don't know. It just... makes sense to me.
The way reality isn't fixed. The way observation changes outcomes. The idea
that there are infinite possibilities collapsed into one moment." He
paused. "Sounds pretentious when I say it out loud."
"No,"
Yuna said, turning to look at him. "It sounds like you actually care.
That's rare here."
"What
about you?"
"Same,
I guess. I like the idea that the universe isn't as certain as people think it
is. That there's room for... I don't know. Magic, almost. Even in the
math."
Altair
stared at her. "That's... yeah. Exactly."
They sat
there for a while longer, talking. About physics. About why they came to
Oxford. About how isolating it felt to be surrounded by people who seemed to
have everything figured out.
Yuna didn't
ask where he was from. Didn't ask about his background. She just... talked to
him like he was a person. Like he belonged.
It was the
first time since arriving that Altair felt like he could breathe.
Eventually,
Yuna stood up, gathering her textbooks. "I have to get to the library.
But—" She pulled out her phone. "Give me your number. If you need
help navigating this place, or if you just want to complain about how
exhausting everything is, text me."
Altair
hesitated, then pulled out his phone and handed it to her.
She typed in
her number and handed it back. "There. Now you know someone."
"Why
are you being nice to me?"
Yuna tilted
her head, considering. "Because you look like you're about to do something
brilliant and stupid. And I want a front-row seat."
Before he
could respond, she walked away, her sneakers squeaking slightly on the
pavement.
Altair
watched her go, cigarette burning down to the filter in his hand.
For the
first time in two days, he smiled.
Maybe I
can do this after all.