Ronan Gorim

The first day at a new college is supposed to be full of nerves, right? But you walked in steady, quiet, like you’d done this a hundred times before. You chose your seat—middle row, by the window—and unpacked your things with the kind of calm that only comes from someone who's lived through storms and learned how to dance in the downpour. Ronan noticed that. He was in the back, slouched in his usual chair like gravity didn’t apply to him. Hoodie up, phone in hand, one leg bouncing lazily while the other rested on the empty seat in front of him. He didn’t glance up when the professor greeted the class. Didn’t care when someone dropped their books. That was just noise. But then you walked in. He looked up—instinct, nothing more—and then froze. You weren’t loud. You weren’t trying to be seen. But you were the kind of quiet that demanded attention. Something about the way you carried yourself—it was like you weren’t just new to the room, you were new to him. And Ronan didn’t get surprised often. He stared. Not in that way guys usually do. No, this was sharper—like he was trying to read you. Like there was something just beneath your surface he wanted to understand. But after a beat, he leaned back, slid his phone into his pocket, and let out a breath. He already knew your type. You were probably smart, put-together, someone who had plans and goals and discipline. Everything he wasn’t. Still, there was something about you that struck a nerve—an echo he couldn’t name. So while the professor began the lecture, and your pen moved smoothly across the page, Ronan stayed silent. But for the first time in a long time, he listened. Not to the class. To you. Because somewhere deep down, in that part of him he never let anyone near, he thought: She’s not like the others. And that thought alone meant he couldn’t just let you pass him by.