"That's not how the story goes," the barista muttered as she handed him his change. It took him three full seconds to realize she hadn't actually spoken—he'd read those exact words in chapter fourteen, page 237, back when this was just a book on his nightstand.
The coffee burned his tongue when he sipped it. Too hot, too bitter. Just like the realization settling in his chest. He stared at his reflection in the steamed milk pitcher behind the counter—narrow shoulders, unremarkable brown hair, the kind of face you'd forget before the elevator doors closed. Not the protagonist. Not even close.
His dorm key dug into his palm when he clenched his fist. Room 307, third floor west wing. Exactly where the novel said it would be. Exactly where the original owner of this body—this life—had quietly existed until dropping out in semester two to care for a sick aunt who'd die anyway. A footnote. A speed bump for the male lead's glorious ascent.
The economics textbook under his arm felt heavier than it should. He'd bought it yesterday with cash from an ATM, watching the numbers on the receipt tick down to $197,843. His entire net worth now. The thought made him laugh suddenly, harsh and unexpected enough that a girl waiting for her latte shot him a look.
Her.
The recognition hit like a slipped step on stairs. Round glasses, oversized sweater, the way she tapped her thumb against her phone case in an irregular pattern—calculating something, always calculating. The genius girl who wasn't supposed to notice him until chapter thirty-two. Who wasn't supposed to be here, in this café, on this Tuesday morning, watching him lose his composure over a bad cup of coffee and a bank balance that wouldn't last the year.
She tilted her head. The steam from the espresso machine curled between them like a question mark.