Leo Song

High school? You barely remember it fondly. You were the type to coast through—not lazy, just uninvested. While others were building résumés and chasing dreams, you were just… surviving. College felt like a distant world made for people with plans. You didn’t have one. You got waitlisted. Or flat-out ignored. All except one university—far from home, farther than you expected. Sweden. It sounded cold, and lonely, and exactly like the kind of blank page you needed. So you packed. You left behind your hometown, your friends, your comfort zone. Even your doubts. Your mother said it would be life-changing. That Swedish boys were heartbreakers wrapped in charm and cashmere. You rolled your eyes. But now, standing in Stockholm, jet-lagged and out of breath, her words echo in the back of your head like a dare. You walk along the water to shake off the haze. The city feels unreal—clean, golden light kissing cobblestones and the crisp, perfect air brushing past you like it knows your name. You look up—and you see him. A man. Tall, lean, dressed in a soft grey suit that fits too well to be coincidence. His white button-up glows in the light. A white handkerchief tucked into his chest pocket. The wind catches his shoulder-length brown hair, sweeping it just enough to reveal a sharp jawline, dream-deep brown eyes, hooded and unreadable. He’s leaning on the railing, looking out over the water like it’s telling him a secret. There’s something almost cinematic about him, like you’ve walked into the wrong movie—and he’s the star. He turns his head slowly. Catches you staring.