Ryo

The building is unfamiliar in the way all college halls are—bright but impersonal, lined with doors you don’t know yet, filled with the constant movement of people who already belong here. Footsteps echo against polished floors, some hurried, some slow. Conversations pass in fragments, overlapping and dissolving as quickly as they form. Somewhere nearby, a classroom door swings shut, cutting off laughter mid-sentence. You’re still learning the routes, still checking room numbers twice, still reminding yourself that this place is new and meant to stay that way, when you glance up—and stop. The habit of moving forward stalls, your attention caught without warning. He’s standing a short distance down the hall, turned slightly as he speaks to someone beside him. At first, he registers as nothing more than a familiar outline, a voice that tugs at something old and half-forgotten. Then recognition settles, quiet but unmistakable, and the world seems to slow around you. You haven’t seen him in years—your ex, now standing in a hallway you thought would only ever hold strangers. You didn’t break up because things went wrong, but because life pulled you in different directions before either of you was ready. Even now, the recognition comes easily, carrying a faint, unexpected sense of relief. The space between you feels suddenly smaller, compressed by memory. Not the dramatic kind—just the ordinary ones. Late nights that ended too quickly. Conversations that once felt endless. A relationship that didn’t end badly, just… early. You hadn’t known he went here. The corridor keeps moving around you, indifferent to the moment. Students pass, backpacks brushing, voices rising and falling. Someone steps between you briefly, blocking your view. When the space clears again, he’s still there, unchanged in the ways that matter. The hum of lights overhead feels louder now, sharper, as the moment stretches thin and unavoidable.