The September morning carried that specific kind of cold that wasn't quite winter but had already murdered summer. The kind of cold that made people walk faster, hands shoved deep in pockets, shoulders hunched against a wind that hadn't yet decided if it wanted to be cruel or just indifferent. In a city that looked enough like New York to be its twin—same grey concrete, same rush of bodies, same smell of exhaust and ambition—autumn was beginning to paint the trees in the courtyards with strokes of amber and rust.
Serio Svana had already eaten breakfast at home. A simple meal—toast, black coffee, nothing worth remembering. He dressed in his usual palette: black slacks, a grey quarter-zip sweater, and a charcoal blazer that hung on his 190cm frame with the ease of something tailored but not ostentatious. His black hair was styled back, still damp from the shower, and his sharp-featured face carried the expression of someone who had just woken up but was already three thoughts ahead of the present moment.
He walked the fifteen minutes from his house—a two-story private residence near the center of the city, the kind of place that whispered wealth without shouting it—to Tetori, a café that sat perfectly between his neighborhood and Le Firhi College. Tetori was minimalist in the way that expensive things often were: clean lines, blonde wood, large windows that let in too much light. But it also had something cozy about it, something in the worn leather of the corner booth seats and the way the barista remembered orders without asking.
Leona was already there.
She sat in their usual spot, a booth near the window where the morning light caught the dust in the air and made it look almost intentional. She was wearing a simple grey sweater and black jeans, her minimalist aesthetic a mirror of her personality—controlled, careful, shy in the way that people who think too much often are. Her black hair fell loose around her shoulders, and her brown eyes were fixed on the street outside, watching students drift past like leaves in a current.
Serio slid into the seat across from her. She looked up, and for a moment, her face softened into something that might have been relief or maybe just habit.
"Serio," she said, her voice carrying the weight of something she'd been rehearsing in her head. "What are your writer's thoughts about this new year?"
Serio leaned back, his long fingers wrapping around the ceramic mug that had been waiting for him—black coffee, no sugar, the way he always took it. A small, playful smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Well, that's not funny, Leona," he replied, his voice a low, melodic baritone. "Please don't do it."
Leona's expression shifted, irritation flickering across her features like a match being struck. "You started again with this cultured behavior while I know who you are, right Serio?"
He tilted his head, studying her the way someone might study a painting they'd seen a hundred times but still couldn't quite understand. "Well, you got me there," he conceded, his smile widening. "But if you want my thoughts—my inner writer thoughts—here they are."
He leaned forward, his presence suddenly filling the space between them, making the booth feel smaller, more intimate. His black eyes—dark enough to swallow light—locked onto hers.
"Hear my inner self, my true self, my talented side talk. This is the moment, Leona. I will tell you."
Leona leaned in, caught despite herself. She hated how he could do this, how he could turn a simple conversation into theater, how he could make her forget that she was supposed to be annoyed with him. "Will you tell me, or am I going to college alone?"
Serio held up one hand, his fingers long and steady, like a conductor preparing for a symphony. "Wait for the truth. One..." He paused. "Two..." Another pause, longer this time. "And three..."
The silence stretched between them, coiling tight. Then, without warning, he let out a sharp, genuine bark of laughter that made the couple at the next table turn their heads.
"I don't care!"
The expectation in Leona's eyes died instantly, replaced by something cold and sharp. Her jaw tightened. "You really can't get serious, can you?"
"Come on," Serio teased, his energy shifting back into something lighter, more boyish. "Are you angry?"
"No, I am not!" Leona snapped, though her face betrayed her. She was making that weird expression she always made when she was trying to look calm—eyebrows drawn together, mouth pressed into a thin line, the corners of her lips twitching with the effort of holding back everything she wanted to say.
"Wait for me here," Serio said, sliding out of the booth with an easy, fluid grace. "I'll go get the order."
He walked toward the counter, and Leona watched him go. What is wrong with you? she thought, her hands clenching into fists on the table. In one moment you're calm as water, then you're funny like a normal boy, then you get serious. Why can't you understand that this school has a lot of meaning for me? You never understand me.
She didn't wait. She grabbed her bag, stood up, and walked out the door. The bell above the entrance chimed once, a small, final sound.
Serio didn't rush. He stood at the counter and ordered something that made the barista's eyebrows lift in mild surprise: a bottle of Malbec—mid-range, nothing flashy, but still unusual for nine in the morning—and two wine glasses. He paid without comment and returned to the booth carrying the bottle and the glasses like he was preparing for a meeting, not mourning a departure.
He sat down and stared at the empty seat across from him.
"Why did you leave?" he asked the air. "Did I say something? Well, whatever."
He set the two glasses side by side on the table. For a long moment, he just looked at them, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, almost to himself, he spoke.
"I don't understand why people look at their glasses half-full and half-empty. While I see them full or empty."
He picked up the bottle and poured the wine into the first glass, watching the dark red liquid rise until it reached the brim. Then, with a steady hand, he tipped it into the second glass, watching the transfer with the focus of someone conducting an experiment. When both glasses sat before him—one full, one empty—he nodded as if confirming something only he understood.
"Wow," he muttered, glancing at the analog watch on his left wrist—black leather strap, simple, understated. "Time has gone a lot and now, in the morning, it is not for wine. So, please..."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out enough cash to cover the bill and a generous tip, and left it on the table. He stood, glanced once more at the empty seat, and walked out into the grey morning.
Le Firhi College sprawled across several city blocks, a massive institution that offered every degree imaginable but was most known for its arts programs. The campus was a mix of old brick buildings and modern glass structures, connected by open courtyards where students gathered between classes. Trees lined the pathways, their leaves just beginning to turn, and the air smelled faintly of coffee and cigarette smoke.
Serio walked the familiar route from Tetori to the main courtyard. His long strides ate up the distance easily, and he moved through the crowds of students with the quiet confidence of someone who didn't need to announce his presence. People noticed him anyway. At 190cm, dressed in black and grey, with sharp features and an air of detachment, he was hard to miss.
Leona had already arrived. She stood near the fountain in the center of the courtyard, talking to Mia Brown.
Mia was impossible not to notice. She was the kind of beautiful that demanded attention: long brunette hair that fell in perfect waves, brown eyes that sparkled with a mix of mischief and calculation, and a body she dressed to showcase. Today, she wore a short black skirt, a tight white shirt that left little to the imagination, and heels that added three inches to her height. She carried a notebook under one arm—more prop than tool—and she stood with the posture of someone who knew exactly how many eyes were on her at any given moment.
"Where were you?" Mia was saying, her voice sharp with curiosity. "Why are you late?"
"I was with Serio drinking coffee," Leona replied, her voice still carrying the sting of the morning's argument.
Mia's eyebrows shot up. "And?"
"And what?"
"Well," Mia said, a playful, gossipy smirk forming on her lips. "You are the girl who goes out every day with Serio, one of the most popular boys at this college. So...?"
"He is my best friend, Mia," Leona said firmly, though there was a tremor of uncertainty beneath her words. "Like you are. Nothing else. I'm going to class."
She turned and walked away, her shoulders tight, her steps quick. Mia watched her go, a flicker of something—satisfaction? pity?—crossing her face.
Then Serio appeared.
He drifted toward Mia with the ease of someone who had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there. He offered a small, polite nod. "Morning, Mia. How are you?"
"Good, and you?"
Serio stopped, looked up at the sky as if checking some internal weather report. "I think I am good for now. I don't know how I will be later."
Mia started to respond, her expression souring. "I didn't ask you—"
"Bye, Mia," Serio interrupted, his voice calm and dismissive as he continued walking.
Mia stared after him, her hands on her hips. "The weirdest boy," she muttered to no one in particular. "I don't know how he is one of the most popular here. He doesn't give a shit about anything."
Inside the lecture hall, the air was stale and smelled faintly of old paper and anxiety. The room was large, with tiered seating that rose toward the back, and a chalkboard at the front that still bore the faint ghost of yesterday's lecture. Students filled the seats in clusters, talking in low voices, checking their phones, pretending to read textbooks they hadn't opened since orientation.
Serio took a seat near the back. His long legs didn't quite fit in the space between rows, so he stretched them out into the aisle and leaned back in his chair. He looked at the chalkboard, his mind already elsewhere.
Why do I even come here? he wondered. It's not like I don't know how to write. Or do I? Do I come here to learn more? Something is off. Yes, something is definitely off about me being here.
His internal monologue was interrupted by the heavy tread of Professor Nem. The man was in his sixties, balding, with a fringe of grey hair that he combed over in a way that fooled no one. He wore a tweed blazer with elbow patches, wire-rimmed glasses, and the expression of someone who had spent decades trying to teach students who didn't want to learn.
Nem entered the room, set his briefcase on the desk with a thud, and looked toward the back of the room. His eyes narrowed as they landed on Serio.
"Late again, Serio?" Nem's voice was dry, brittle, like old parchment. "I think you don't even want to come here. So why don't you do me a favor and never come again if you're going to arrive like this?"
The room went silent. Every student turned to look at Serio, some with expressions of anticipation, others with barely concealed glee.
Serio didn't flinch. He didn't even look guilty. "Well, you have some right," he said, his voice carrying easily through the hall. "But no."
A wave of nervous laughter rippled through the students. Nem's face flushed a deep, academic red. "How 'no'?"
"This is college," Serio replied, his tone conversational, almost friendly. "So I can come here when I want and leave when I want. So, as I told you, you have a right... but no."
Nem took a long, stabilizing breath. He adjusted his glasses and decided to pivot, to use his territory—Greek Mythology, his specialty—to crush the student's arrogance. "Today, we'll talk about Greek Mythology. Serio, do you have anything to say about Greek Mythology?"
The Professor smirked. This was a trap, and everyone in the room knew it. Greek Mythology was Nem's domain, the subject he had spent forty years studying, the topic he could lecture on for hours without notes.
The class waited. Eyes darted between the aging scholar and the tall, indifferent writer.
Serio opened his mouth, then closed it. He let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. Nem's smirk grew wider. He thought he had him.
"I..." Serio began, then paused. "Serio does have something to say. But not today."
Nem's smile vanished. "Then listen to what I will say. The greatest Greek Mythology authors are Homer, Hesiod, Apollodorus..."
"Yes," Serio interrupted, leaning back with a look of mock-contemplation. "You are right."
"Will you let me do my work?" Nem snapped, his patience finally breaking. "You're a grown man, not in high school, Serio, so—"
Serio didn't wait for the insult to land. He stood up, his 190cm frame casting a long shadow over the front row. The movement was smooth, unhurried, almost theatrical.
"Life is a mystery, Professor Nem," Serio said, his voice now devoid of humor. "And I will tell you now that you are right. And I will take my leave. Goodbye, good people."
He paused at the door, turned back, and added with a small smile, "And you, the Great Professor Nem the Right."
He walked out. Behind him, the class erupted into laughter, and Professor Nem stood in the middle of his lecture on Homer, suddenly feeling very small.
Leona's studio was located in the arts building, a sprawling structure filled with natural light and the smell of paint and turpentine. The painting studios were communal, but Leona had claimed a corner for herself during hours when most students were in class. She liked the quiet, the way the light fell through the tall windows, the way she could play music without bothering anyone.
Today, she was working on something new.
On the canvas, a lion was beginning to take shape. But it wasn't a standard portrait. The lion was perched atop an object that was part sword, part violin—abstract, surreal, the colors bold and unnatural. Golds and purples bled into each other, and the lion's mane seemed to ripple with a life of its own.
She stood back, biting her lip, studying the piece with a critical eye. "Why do all people think lions don't have a taste for art and music?" she whispered to herself. "I think their roar is wonderful. Like a sword for the animals to awaken and beware of their King... and like a violin to a lioness."
She reached for her phone, scrolling through her playlist. "I need a melody. Something strong but touching."
She chose blindly, and the booming, orchestral power of "O Fortuna" began to fill the room. The sound was huge, overwhelming, and she closed her eyes, letting it wash over her.
"Now I can imagine this lion at his height," she murmured. "The king, the sword, and the v—"
"Ah, this melody," a voice interrupted from the doorway. "O Fortuna... like the moon."
Leona jumped, her brush leaving a small, unintended streak of gold across the canvas. Serio was leaning against the doorframe, his presence once again feeling too large for the space. He began to recite the lyrics, but in English, twisting the ancient Latin into something modern and playful.
"One," Leona said, turning to face him with her hands on her hips. "What are you doing here? Two, what are you speaking about? And three, why are you here again?"
Serio pushed off the doorframe and walked toward the painting. "One: I am singing the song in English. Two: the same as the first. And three: I came here to see what you're doing, since I am no longer part of the Literature class of Nem the Right."
"Nem the Right?" Leona asked, a small smile threatening to break through her annoyance.
"Nem the Right," Serio confirmed. He tilted his head, studying the canvas. "And why is this lion on a sword like a violin?"
Leona sighed, her shoulders dropping. "You wouldn't understand. You always make fun of me when I show you what it is."
"Well," Serio said, his voice shifting into a tone that was both arrogant and intellectual. "I might not be Nem the Right, but I am Ruazo. So yeah, I can make fun of you from my critical writer's view."
Leona pointed toward the door. "Get out and leave me alone, you critical writer."
The door opened before Serio could respond. Mia walked in, followed by her boyfriend, Jon.
Jon was tall—180cm—with brown hair and blue eyes that carried the easy confidence of someone who had never known real hardship. He wore a brown puffer jacket, loose jeans, and expensive sneakers, the uniform of the well-off college student. He was handsome in a conventional way, the kind of face that looked good in group photos.
"Hi Leona," Mia said, ignoring Serio entirely. "Are you ready?"
"For what?"
"For the party at Jon's house? We told you a week ago and you agreed."
Leona looked at the painting, then at Serio's smirking face. "Yeah, I'll be there. Give me some time."
"Bye!" Mia said, heading back out with Jon in tow.
Serio watched them leave, a strange, hollow expression on his face. "It's surprising that I was a ghost."
"I'm going to the party," Leona said, packing her brushes. "So I'm leaving."
"Goodbye, Leon," Serio said.
"You are not even a second serious," she threw back over her shoulder as she disappeared into the hallway.
Serio stood alone in the studio. The music was still playing—"O Fortuna" had moved into a quieter section, strings weeping softly—and the air suddenly felt heavy, stagnant.
"Why is it so cold here?" he whispered. "And it's bad air. Air with a depressed feel."
He didn't just walk out. He ran, leaving the college grounds behind, fleeing back to his house.
His bedroom was on the second floor, minimalist in the way expensive things often were. A king-sized bed with grey sheets, a single nightstand, a closet that held only black and grey clothing. Next to the bedroom was a private bathroom with a jacuzzi, a walk-in closet, and a balcony that overlooked the city.
He threw himself onto the bed, grabbed the remote, and turned on the TV. He flipped through channels until he landed on something—Friends, maybe, or The Office—and let the canned laughter fill the room.
"I am alone," he muttered to himself. "Why should I watch this alone? If I only had someone to be with me..."
His phone vibrated on the nightstand. He glanced at the screen: Manager.
He sighed and answered. "Hey, my favorite writer," the voice boomed. "My favorite fiction writer."
"Yeah," Serio said, his voice flat. "A compliment isn't what I needed now. So what do you want? A new book? Well, no. I am busy with a book now."
"You know, man," the manager said, his tone shifting to business. "But you should start writing soon or other writers are going to take your place. It's a wild competition out there. Stop being lazy."
Serio sat up, his eyes narrowing. "You're calling 'lazy' the person who is making you money? What a word to call me. Did you know that the word 'lazy' came from the Low German lasich? It has a different meaning. It's like when you were offended at being called lazy, but you just didn't have the energy to defend yourself. And I defended myself. Okay? So I am not lazy. I am just taking my time."
"Well," the manager said, sounding exhausted. "Thanks for the definition. Take your time."
The line went dead. Serio stood up and began pacing the length of his bedroom, his long strides eating up the space in just a few steps. "I need to find something to do," he whispered. "Am I going crazy?"
Meanwhile, Leona was at Jon's party.
The house was in one of the wealthier neighborhoods, a three-story brownstone with high ceilings and expensive furniture that looked like it had been staged for a magazine shoot. The party was in full swing by the time Leona arrived—music thumping, bodies moving, the smell of alcohol and perfume thick in the air.
Mia found her almost immediately. "Hey Leona," she said, her voice bright with enthusiasm. "There's a boy who would like to dance with you. It's Jon's friend, Mikel."
"Ahh, no thanks," Leona said, already looking for an exit.
"Come on," Mia insisted. "One time you came to a party, you went to the corner and stood there like you didn't want to be there."
"Well—"
Before Leona could finish, Mikel appeared. He was around 181cm, with the build of someone who played sports but didn't take it too seriously. He wore a polo shirt, blue jeans, and expensive shoes—the kind that cost more than most people's rent. He had the air of someone who thought he was tougher than he actually was, his voice carrying a forced depth when he spoke.
"Hi," Leona said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Are you alone?" Mikel asked.
"No, I am—"
"Yes, she is," Mia interrupted.
"Then you should join me to dance," Mikel said.
"Maybe later, not now."
"Come on," Mikel pressed. "Once you go to the dancing floor, you don't want to leave."
"Facts," Mia added. "Can't deny them."
"Well, okay," Leona said, her voice resigned.
They moved to the center of the room where other couples were dancing. Mikel tried to lead, but Leona was slow, hesitant, her movements stiff. He tried to open a conversation, but she deflected every attempt.
"Mia told me you're in the Art College with her," he said.
"Yes, I am."
"She even told me that you paint while listening to music. That's amazing. I would like to see you do that."
"Thanks, but it's not a big thing."
The DJ transitioned into a slower song—Rumba, the rhythm sensual and deliberate. Mikel smiled. "It's like a slowdown from those other kinds of music."
"I have to go to the bathroom," Leona said abruptly, pulling away.
She disappeared into the crowd, and Mikel walked over to Jon, frustration written on his face.
"Well, I am trying to talk with her, man, but no," Mikel said. "She avoids me, and now with Rumba, she made it clear she doesn't want to dance. Sorry, man, but tell Mia you can't make someone like another."
"No problem," Jon said. "Mia just thought you two had things in common and was trying to hook you up."
Mia overheard the conversation and immediately headed to the bathroom.
"Leona, what are you doing?" she demanded, pushing open the door.
Leona was standing in front of the mirror, gripping the edge of the sink. "You were trying to hook me up with Mikel, weren't you?"
"Well, yes," Mia said, her voice sharp. "But hear this—you spend all of your time with Serio, who wants you as a friend, and you're so connected with him you don't see why. You like Serio, don't you? But Serio sees you as a best friend, and to tell the truth, he's holding you back, girl."
"It's not like that!" Leona said, her voice breaking.
Tears began to stream down her face, and she pushed past Mia, heading for the front door.
Outside, the night air was cold and sharp. Leona was halfway down the front steps when the door opened behind her.
It was Serio.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, wiping at her eyes.
"Nelio called me to come here," Serio said. He was wearing the same clothes from earlier—black slacks, grey sweater, charcoal blazer—but his expression was different. Sharper. More focused. "Why are you crying?"
"Nothing," Leona said, and she walked past him toward the street.
Mia appeared in the doorway behind Serio. "Did you make Leona sad?" Serio asked, his voice low and serious.
"No," Mia said defensively. "Just opened her eyes. What are you doing here?"
"I don't know what you have with me," Serio said, his tone calm but edged with something dangerous. "But if you make Leona sad one more time, I promise you will have some problems with me."
He turned and walked after Leona, leaving Mia standing in the doorway.
Leona had made it to the parking area behind the house. She was standing alone, her arms wrapped around herself, staring at the ground.
"I know you can paint while listening to music," Serio said, walking up beside her. "But are you painting now?"
"I'm not listening to music," Leona said. "What are you talking about?"
"Well, did you know that when you cry, you hear a melody?" Serio said. "Not too strong but not too calm. It's like a vibration in your ears while you shed tears. So get up and paint a masterpiece from this melody."
"I don't want to."
"Then what do you want, Leona?" He turned to face her fully, his black eyes locking onto hers.
"You can't be serious?"
"I am," Serio said. "And serious now."
Leona looked up at him, her brown eyes wet with tears. "You know I like Rumba, but I didn't want to dance at the party."
"Because you're a girl of art," Serio said. "Rumba isn't made to be a dance at a party. But worry not."
He pulled out his phone, scrolled for a moment, and pressed play. The slow, sensual rhythm of Rumba began to fill the parking lot.
"It's never too late if you want to dance the Rumba," Serio said. "But if you want, let's dance."
Leona stared at him. "You were so serious, and now so energetic."
Serio grabbed her hand and pulled her close. They began to move, his lead firm but gentle, and for a moment, everything else—the party, Mia, the tears—faded away.
Inside, Mia watched from the window. "Jon," she said softly. "If only you were like Serio."
"Indifferent?" Jon asked.
"No. A gentleman."
"Wasn't it you who wanted to separate Leona from Serio?"
"Because Serio sees Leona as a friend, and Leona likes him. I'm sure of that."
"Let them be," Jon said. "And let's enjoy our party."
Outside, Serio and Leona continued to dance. After a few moments, Serio spoke. "I don't want to interrupt this slow and versatile dancing, but I want to know—did Mia say something that made you sad, or did anyone there make you sad?"
"As you said," Leona replied, "you don't want to interrupt this dancing. So let's just dance."
"As you wish, Leona."
She looked up into his eyes and saw something there—care, concern, but also distance. He was looking at her the way an older brother might, the way a protector might. Not the way she wanted him to look at her.
"Serio," she said quietly. "With your writer's thoughts, how would you explain the idea of being with someone but not with him?"
The music stopped.
"It means that they care about each other," Serio said. "And that's all."
Leona opened her mouth to respond, but Serio interrupted. "I know you want dessert now."
"How did you know?"
"My writer's thoughts got in."
They walked toward the street where Serio's car was parked—a blacked-out Audi S8, sleek and understated. He opened the passenger door for her, and she slid inside.
Nelio appeared at the edge of the parking lot, a varsity jacket over his shoulders, his serious expression softening into a grin. "You just came and now you're leaving?"
"Well, fate is a weird thing," Serio said, closing Leona's door and walking around to the driver's side. "Maybe it wasn't written for me to be here."
He got in, started the engine, and drove away.
Inside the car, the silence was comfortable. Leona connected her phone to the player and scrolled through her music.
"When you came to my studio today, you started singing," she said.
"Yeah, it was 'O Fortuna,' but in English."
"You're telling me that after all these years of being friends, you never told me you could sing!"
"Well, I'm not too good at it," Serio said, his eyes on the road. "But it happened to sing today. It was fate."
"Two times in a day's fate?"
"This is why I like fate," Serio said. "It's mysterious. Sometimes yes, and sometimes no."
"Why did you come to the party?"
"Nelio invited me."
"You don't like parties, so...?"
"It's never bad going to a house party."
"True," Leona said. She paused, then added, "You don't like parties either, but you went. It's called a social gathering of guests to be entertained. Am I right?"
"Like always," Serio said with a small smile. "But not as much as Nem the Right."
"I can't be compared with Nem the Right," Serio said, and for the first time that day, he laughed—a real, genuine laugh that filled the car and made Leona smile despite everything.