The air in the university courtyard smelled of crushed jasmine and old library books—the kind of scent that feels like a beginning. Riyad wasn't looking for a beginning; he was looking for his lost sketchbook.
He was the kind of guy who lived in the margins of life, a quiet architecture student who preferred the geometry of buildings to the messy unpredictability of people. But then he saw her, and suddenly, symmetry seemed boring.
Her name was Sama.
Sama didn't just walk; she seemed to radiate. She was sitting on a stone bench, tucked under the shade of a massive banyan tree, sketching something with a ferocity that made Riyad stop in his tracks. Her hair was a wild halo of dark curls, and she wore a sunflower-yellow dress that defied the overcast sky.
"That's a brave choice of perspective," Riyad said before his brain could give his mouth permission to speak.
Sama looked up. Her eyes were large, dark, and filled with an immediate, piercing intelligence. She didn't look shy; she looked amused. "Brave? Or just accurate? Most people ignore the way the light hits the roots because they're too busy looking at the leaves."
Riyad felt a strange tug in his chest—a literal "first look" moment that felt like a shutter clicking on a camera. "I'm Riyad," he managed.
"I know," she smiled, and it was a devastatingly bright thing. "You're the boy who stares at the clock in History of Art. I'm Sama. And you're standing on my charcoal pencils."