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The campus woke slowly, as if it, too, was unsure whether peace would last.
Morning light spilled across the old stone walkways, soft and deceptive, warming benches that had witnessed too many whispered arguments and unfinished confessions. Kiera stood at the edge of the quad, her bag slung over one shoulder, watching students drift past like moving pieces in a game she still wasn't sure she knew how to play.
This was her world again.
Not running. Not hiding. Not shrinking.
But stepping back into it felt heavier than she expected.
She could feel eyes on her—not sharp, not cruel, just curious. Campus curiosity was its own kind of pressure. It didn't accuse; it waited. It collected fragments and assembled stories when no one was looking.
"Kiera."
Shane's voice came from behind her, low and careful, like he was afraid she might disappear if he spoke too loudly.
She turned.
There he was—hands in his pockets, hair still slightly damp from a rushed shower, that familiar tension in his shoulders that only showed when he was trying to be calm for her sake. Seeing him here, fully in the open, felt different than the quiet intimacy of the previous night. Harder. Braver.
"You ready?" he asked.
She nodded, even though her stomach fluttered.
They started walking together, not touching, but close enough that their arms brushed every few steps. That small contact grounded her more than words could have.
"You don't have to do everything today," Shane said. "We can take it slow."
Kiera exhaled softly. "If I slow down now, I'll overthink. And if I overthink, I'll spiral."
He smiled faintly. "Fair."
As they passed the humanities building, a familiar laugh floated through the air. Lisa stood near the steps, coffee in hand, mid-conversation with Lucas. They both noticed Kiera at the same time.
Lisa's face lit up instantly. Lucas straightened, suddenly awkward, like he wasn't sure where to put his hands.
"There she is," Lisa said, already moving toward her.
Kiera barely had time to brace before Lisa pulled her into a hug. "You disappeared," she said softly, but there was no accusation in it. Just relief.
"I know," Kiera replied. "I needed space."
Lucas cleared his throat. "We figured. Just… good to see you back."
Their presence felt normal. Comforting. No interrogation. No heavy questions. Just friendship, offered without conditions.
As they talked—about classes, deadlines, a lecturer who took attendance too seriously—Kiera noticed something subtle between Lisa and Lucas. The way their eyes met a fraction too long. The way Lucas shifted closer without realizing it. The way Lisa smiled when he spoke.
She filed it away, not to pry, just to remember that life kept unfolding around them, even when things felt paused.
After they parted ways, Shane and Kiera headed toward the library.
The building loomed ahead, glass and stone reflecting the sky like it had nothing to hide.
Kiera slowed.
"This place," she murmured. "It feels different today."
"Because you're different," Shane said simply.
Inside, the quiet wrapped around them. Students sat hunched over laptops, whispering, existing in their own worlds. A girl with bright red braids glanced up as Kiera passed, recognition flickering before she returned to her notes. Somewhere deeper in the stacks, a phone buzzed. Life, undramatic and persistent.
They found seats near the windows.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Shane leaned back slightly, studying her face. "There's something I didn't tell you."
Kiera looked at him. "That sounds dangerous."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Not like that. I just… I wasn't sure when to bring it up."
Her pulse quickened. "Okay."
"I think I knew you before we met here."
She blinked. "What?"
"When you mentioned that old neighborhood last night—the one near the river—it hit me," he continued. "I used to spend summers there. My aunt lived close by."
Kiera's breath caught. A memory stirred—sun-bleached afternoons, scraped knees