I woke before my alarm, caught somewhere between a fading dream and the dull blue light pressing against the curtains. I just lay there for a while, letting my mind wander, listening to the quiet tick of the old clock on the wall. For a moment, the world felt perfectly still -- nothing urgent, nothing loud, just the distant hum of a boiler in the pipes and the smell of yesterday's rain drifting in from the cracked window. My sheets were tangled around my legs, warm but already slipping into the morning chill, and as I stretched out, I could hear the faint creak of the bedframe under my weight.
I finally forced myself upright, sat on the edge of the mattress, and squinted at the rectangle of pale light slipping in between the curtains. There was something calming about it, that early gray of winter mornings, before the campus noise had a chance to wake up. Rubbing my eyes, I stood and shuffled over to the window. The street outside was mostly empty except for a cat darting along the curb, a couple of bikes locked up and dripping under the awning across the road. I pressed my forehead to the glass for a second, just breathing in the cold, before pulling away and heading to the bathroom.
The tiles were freezing against my feet. I flicked on the light and caught my own reflection in the mirror -- hair sticking up in all directions, eyelids heavy, mouth pulled to one side in a crooked half-smile. I splashed cold water on my face, then braced myself with both hands on the edge of the sink, studying the familiar shape of my jaw, the nervousness lurking somewhere behind my eyes. Sometimes I try to wake myself up with a little slap to the cheek -- nothing dramatic, just enough to send a signal. This morning, I did it twice. "Come on, Ben," I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper. "Get it together."
Back in my room, I pulled on my favorite sweater and the only clean pair of jeans I had left, then padded barefoot into the small kitchen. The apartment was quiet except for the faint hiss from the radiator. I found the frying pan where I'd left it (still a little greasy, but good enough), cracked a couple of eggs, and started making an omelet. The familiar sizzle filled the space, and for a minute, I let myself enjoy the normalcy of it. I leaned my hip against the counter, absently scratching one leg with the other while I watched the eggs bubble and set. The smell was comforting -- butter and salt and something faintly peppery from last night's dinner.
I glanced at the clock above the sink. Seven-forty. No rush, not yet. I found the bread, dropped two slices in the toaster, then checked my phone for messages. Nothing from anyone important -- just a reminder about the winter ball pinned to the top of my notifications. I ignored it. The toast popped; I plated the food and poured myself a quick cup of coffee, black and bitter.
For a while, I just stood there, eating over the sink, watching sunlight creep slowly across the far wall. It was only when I happened to check the time again -- seven fifty-eight now -- that a jolt of panic shot through me. I swore under my breath, tossed my empty mug into the sink, and started grabbing everything I'd need for the day. Notebooks, pens, battered satchel. I could feel my heart picking up speed as I shrugged into my coat, slung my bag over one shoulder, and bolted for the door, feet half-slipping into my shoes as I fumbled with the keys. No time for second thoughts. Out into the corridor, down the stairs, the whole building still wrapped in the hush of morning.
By the time I hit the sidewalk, cold air was biting at my cheeks, and I was already rehearsing excuses for being late. Another day, another scramble. But for a brief second, as I jogged past the bakery with its windows fogged over and the sharp smell of fresh bread leaking out into the street, I actually felt good. Awake. Ready for whatever the universe was about to throw at me.
I kept a brisk pace down the sidewalk, tucking my chin into the collar of my coat as the wind sliced along the empty street. The city always looked a little different in the morning -- softer, somehow, like it hadn't quite made up its mind about the day yet. My shoes slapped against the pavement, echoing back at me from the row of brick buildings, and with every step, the tension in my chest loosened just a bit. I found myself watching the clouds slide by overhead, streaks of pale gold tangled with the grey, and for a minute I pretended I was just another anonymous student, late for class, nothing more.
But it's impossible to fool yourself for long. I've always been the type to narrate my own life, even when I know no one's listening. I caught my reflection in the window of the bookstore -- hair still wild, bag slung carelessly across my chest -- and grinned at how out of place I looked. I mouthed the opening line of my novel for maybe the thousandth time: "The road to the moon is longer than you think, and lonelier too." I don't know when I started writing that story, only that it's grown up with me, each draft a little more honest, a little closer to something true. It's a love story, really, or at least it tries to be. A boy chasing the impossible, loving from a distance, never quite able to say what he feels until it's almost too late. I used to imagine the main character was someone else, but these days, it's just me in a different coat.
I've loved literature for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, I'd stay up late under the covers with a flashlight, devouring books I was too young to really understand, getting lost in their strange rhythms and worlds. By high school, I knew I wanted to study stories -- not just read them, but pick them apart, see how they worked, maybe write one good enough to last. That's why I ended up here, at this odd little college that felt half-forgotten by the rest of the world, where the library smells like old carpet and everyone seems to know your name.
My thoughts drifted, as they always do, to Emily Emm. It's hard not to think about her, especially on mornings like this when the air is sharp and I'm still half-dreaming. She's the reason I took this job, really -- the reason I push myself to show up on time, to read one more essay, to learn one more thing I can impress her with. I'd never admit it out loud, but she's been my muse for as long as I've known her. Some people fall for ideas, or for faces on the backs of book jackets. Me? I fell for a professor with a smile like spring sunlight and a mind quick as fire. Sometimes, when we're bent over a stack of essays together in the cramped office, she'll ask me some clever question about a passage, and for a second I forget how to speak.
The city was starting to wake up around me. I turned the corner near the bus stop, nearly colliding with a pack of students in Ashmont Academy hoodies, their voices bouncing around in quick, sleepy bursts. There was a group of art majors huddled over coffee, arguing about which building had the best natural light, and someone from the debate team rehearsing out loud as she jogged past me. A guy on a skateboard zipped by, headphones dangling, music leaking tinny and defiant into the cold. I dodged a dog on a leash, nodded at a janitor pushing a squeaky cart of supplies, and tried to take it all in: the slap of sneakers on wet concrete, the shouts from the athletic field, the hiss of a city bus pulling away from the curb.
I slowed down as I neared the main gates of the university, the old brick arch still damp from the night before. There was a kind of organized chaos here -- clusters of students weaving around each other, backpacks slung low, the smell of bagels and burnt coffee trailing out from the student center. I could hear someone strumming a guitar near the benches, laughter rippling up the steps to the main entrance. It was the kind of morning that made you feel like the world was starting over, like maybe anything was possible if you could just get through the door.
I paused for a second at the edge of the crowd, feeling the familiar flutter of nerves in my stomach. My notebook was safe in my bag, manuscript tucked inside, and I reminded myself -- not for the first time -- that today was just another day. Nothing more, nothing less. I squeezed the strap of my satchel, took a steadying breath, and stepped into the rushing tide of students, letting the life of the campus carry me up toward the front steps and whatever waited for me inside.
