The lock clicked softly behind him.
Alex lingered outside his apartment door, fingers resting against the knob. The hallway breathed the way it always did—music leaking from somewhere down the floor, a television murmuring behind closed doors, the thin electrical hum of fluorescent lights struggling to stay awake. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and old paint.
Nothing followed him out.
He adjusted the strap of his bag and started down the corridor. The tiles were cool beneath his shoes, the sound of his steps swallowed almost immediately by the narrow space. At the stairwell, he hesitated, then descended, hand brushing the railing worn smooth by years of use.
Outside, heat wrapped around him without warning. It pressed against his skin, familiar and heavy. Tricycles rattled past in uneven bursts, engines coughing as drivers called out destinations. A vendor shouted about freshly baked pandesal, his voice sharp with repetition. Jeepneys honked at nothing in particular, bright paint flashing as they lurched forward and stopped again.
Alex stepped into the slow-moving current of people heading toward the main road, letting routine take over before thought could drift back to the morning.
At the corner store, he bought a bottled drink. The flickering sign buzzed overhead as he stepped back outside. He twisted the cap and took a long swallow. The cold bit into his teeth, sharp enough to keep him present.
He boarded a jeepney a few minutes later, squeezing into a seat near the driver. The metal bench was warm beneath his palms. People packed in around him—knees touching, elbows pressed tight, a backpack digging into his side. The radio crackled with an old song he half-remembered, its melody warped by static.
Buildings slid past in fragments: unfinished concrete walls, faded campaign posters peeling at the edges, laundry hanging from balconies like quiet flags. At each stop, someone climbed down, and someone else climbed in, the space shrinking by degrees.
Alex found himself counting the stops.
When the university gates came into view, the tightness in his chest eased. He checked the time on his phone—1:18 p.m.
The gates stood crooked and tall, rust biting deep into their hinges. Paint peeled from the iron in long curls, thinned by rain and years of neglect. They were always open, always complaining softly when brushed past.
Students flowed through in uneven waves. Some hurried as if the ground might vanish beneath their feet, uniforms wrinkled and half-tucked, ID lanyards swinging. Others drifted along more slowly, unbothered, as if time itself were negotiable.
Vendors crowded the entrance. Photocopy machines rattled and whined. Snacks were stacked in precarious towers. Oil glistened beneath heat lamps. A blender screamed every few seconds as it tore through ice. Flyers for seminars, pageants, and student meetings layered the walls, newer ones pasted over old announcements whose corners had long since curled away.
Alex walked through without stopping.
Inside, the main hallway was cooler. Aging air-conditioning units hummed overhead, vents rattling unevenly. Fluorescent lights flickered now and then—not enough to fail, just enough to be noticed. Dark stains marked the ceiling tiles, reminders of leaks that had been patched and forgotten.
Noise filled the space—voices overlapping, chairs scraping, laughter breaking through lectures. Desks bore the scars of previous years: initials, dates, careless hearts carved deep into wood. Windows stood half-open, admitting warm air and distant traffic.
The smell followed him.
Chalk dust. Floor wax.
And something faintly metallic.
The university felt solid. Old. Like it would still be standing long after everyone walking through it had moved on.
His first class wasn't until mid-afternoon, so he went to the library.
The doors parted with a soft hiss. Cool air spilled out, raising goosebumps along his arms. The noise from outside dulled at once, replaced by the low murmur of voices and the gentle scrape of chairs.
Alex chose a table near the back, close enough to the windows to catch the light. He set his bag down carefully and took out his notebook, laptop, and pen, arranging them in a neat line. The small order steadied him.
He opened his laptop.
MIDTERM REQUIREMENTS
A take-home history exam. An essay deadline. A comprehensive physics midterm covering the weeks since the term began.
He exhaled and closed the document. Opened his notebook instead.
The pages were crowded with cramped handwriting—lectures copied too quickly, diagrams left unfinished, reminders circled and underlined in different colors. At the back, outlines for his literature paper sat beside page numbers and question marks where arguments should have been.
For a while, he worked.
He reread passages, highlighted lines that felt important without knowing why, and typed sentences only to erase them again. When frustration built, he shifted tasks, recalculating physics problems he already knew the answers to.
Time passed in small, harmless pieces.
Eventually, his eyes burned. He leaned back, rubbing his face before forcing himself forward again. The work didn't feel productive, but stopping felt worse—as if the moment he did, everything he was holding at bay would rush in.
So he kept going.
Then he noticed the smell.
It was faint. Easy to miss.
Paper. Dust.
And beneath it, something damp.
Alex froze.
The scent neither strengthened nor faded. It lingered, thin and patient, as if it had always been there.
He looked around. Students filled the tables. A girl nearby chewed on the end of a pen, her foot bouncing. Someone coughed softly. A librarian pushed a cart of books past the shelves, its wheels squeaking.
Everything looked ordinary.
Alex lowered his gaze to the page. The numbers blurred.
When he straightened again, the light hadn't changed—but the room felt larger. The gaps between shelves seemed wider. The ceiling. Higher.
His foot brushed the floor. For a split second, it felt soft.
He pulled his leg back and stared.
Tile. Cold. Solid.
He packed his things quickly, sliding his notebook into his bag and zipping it shut. As he stood, the smell thinned—whether it faded or he simply stopped noticing, he couldn't tell.
Outside the library, sound rushed back in. Voices. Footsteps. Laughter.
Alex paused just beyond the doors, taking a deep breath until the tightness in his chest loosened.
He rechecked the time. Still early.
Too early to go home.
For a moment, he considered using his full name when he signed the attendance sheet later—Alexander instead of Alex. Something formal. Whole. The way it appeared on enrollment forms and transcripts, the name that belonged to the version of himself that finished things and stayed upright.
He adjusted his grip on his bag and headed down the hall.