Julian's life runs like clockwork, with his favorite mottos being "the early bird catches the worm" and "time is gold." He's been called an 'old soul' several times, more so because his sleep and meal patterns are not typical for boys his age. While eighteen-year-olds might be night owls, Julian's in bed by 10 PM, then he's up between 7 AM to 8 AM, even on weekends.

Veggies? Sure. Vices? Not a chance. No smoking, no alcohol.

Hence, it's plain as day that Julian has been brought up as a good student, the one who will enroll in an early morning class without reservations. As long as he's armed with a cup of tea, he's good to go.

Which is exactly what he's doing now, brewing a fresh pot amidst a few other students in the communal kitchen.

He runs into two upperclassmen from the School of Business. One majoring in Human Resources, and the other in Operations.

"Oh, I'm a freshman!" He introduces himself enthusiastically. "I'm majoring in Finance. Probably will minor in Marketing."

The chat lasts for a couple of minutes, with his seniors kind enough to give him a rundown of electives and professors to take. Julian scribbles down the details diligently, thanking them before heading out, mug washed, and his spirit fully recharged. He's ready to take on the world.

And to find who he's looking for. It shouldn't be too hard. They're going to be on one campus. A massive one, with vast spaces and scattered buildings, but overall, the odds are in his favor. He can probably ask around to see if anyone knows Joaquin...

Pause. People might think he's strange. And Joaquin used to be withdrawn. What if he still is? It might not work.

Darn. This is already driving him nuts.

Julian bites his nails, thinking hard, as he continues to stroll down the sidewalk.

Fine. Once he's settled in, he'll embark on this mission. A simple one: Find Joaquin. Say hi. Catch up. And simply scold him for leaving him hanging.

After all, wasn't Julian a good friend? He and Joaquin never fought. They shared everything. If Joaquin didn't think it was worth keeping in touch, he could've said so. He wasn't the type to ghost people–was he?

Hold up. Did Julian not know him at all? Or is it that he's made too many friends to care–

Lost in his thoughts, Julian doesn't notice the glass door of the Arts building, until it's too late.

Thud. He collides with it, and he yelps, rubbing his forehead. It definitely has a sign that says "PUSH." It doesn't say which body part should do the pushing, though. His head swerves from side to side to check if anyone has seen him. No one.

That was a close call! He must keep his head straight. Today is his first day. Classes first, Joaquin later.

Julian steps inside and is immediately left in awe, jaw hanging in suspense. The ceilings stretch far above, an old but elegant chandelier in the middle, with portraits of significant figures (probably) from several disciplines adorning the walls. Students are coming from several directions, a few shooting him glimpses. When their gazes meet, he offers them a polite smile. One of them cringes, another raises an eyebrow.

Okay, maybe avoid eye-to-eye contact. He's so used to saying 'hi' to everyone after being raised in a small community. Even his previous school had been a bit underpopulated. Just about thirty students for two sections. It's safe to say that Julian's environment has always been "everyone knows everyone." Seems like that doesn't apply here.

Julian's gaze flickers to his course schedule and the directional signs back and forth. His first class says 3-4A. Third floor. Where is the elevator?

Spotting the sign, he makes his way over, humming softly as he waits. Stepping alone inside, he presses the button '3.' As the doors close, he hears someone calling to hold it, but Julian's frantic jabs at the open button come too late. The doors have scraped close with a soft whoosh.

"Sorry!" he whispers to the wind. Thank goodness that person hadn't seen him, though whoever was that had a great voice–husky, thick. Like he's just rolled out of bed, but not really.

Julian chuckles to himself. Seriously. It's too early for this.

He arrives at the lecture hall. It's quite spacey, with rows upon rows of around 30 seats, theater-style, and in a tiered fashion. He settles into the third row and unpacks his materials one by one. Notebook. Pen. Laptop.

"Here we go..."

******

Joaquin wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, his mood already plummeting to an all-time low. He's currently not hungover, but his sleep had been light, his brain alert. This is what he gets for overthinking before bed. His mind hadn't known when to shut up and had ended up ruining his rest.

After showering and dressing up, he heads to the dining table, where his father, Dennis, is already waiting, sipping coffee.

At 51, Dennis Chavez's hair is more salt than pepper, the lines on his face a prominent roadmap of years. Sitting next to Joaquin, one cannot deny their relationship to each other. Sometimes, when the thought still crosses his mind, Joaquin wonders whether his mother hated him because he was a walking reminder of her former lover.

Once seated, breakfast is served. Dennis reads the paper, while Joaquin enjoys his fried rice, sausages, and eggs.

"First day of senior year?" His father asks, focused on the news.

"Yeah," Joaquin replies.

"Good. Do well."

Joaquin nods. "Of course. Are you going to work today?"

"Yes. I'm swamped."

"Good luck."

Soon, he bids his father goodbye and makes his way to the garage. The university is about twenty minutes away, considering the traffic. In the car, he receives a text from Alexander, checking if he'd be going to the club after class to help out the juniors with recruitment. Joaquin says he'll think about it, although he could see what's going to happen. Alexander would show up and drag him to AIESEC, and he'd have no choice in the matter.

The driver drops him off in front of the building just as he notices some poor guy crashing through the glass door. He stifles a laugh. No, he shouldn't be amused at other people's missteps... but how could he not? The guy's obviously disgruntled, looking around in embarrassment, but forgets to glance behind him.

Oh, well. Rookie move. He's probably a nervous freshman.

Joaquin enters the building and bumps into a Professor from one of his previous classes. They exchange pleasantries, catching up briefly before going their separate ways.

His phone buzzes again, a notification from one of his idle social media accounts, which Alexander had signed him up for. Myka's tagged him in a photo from last night. One where he wasn't even looking at the camera. Distracted by the image, he fails to catch the elevator, his call to hold the door futile. Just his luck. He slips his phone back into his pocket and waits for another one.

He had a class in the same room last term, so finding the lecture hall isn't an issue. His gaze sweeps the room to find a vacant spot. It's packed with freshmen. He feels odd and out of place, but his messed-up schedule has landed him here.

Joaquin dismisses the subtle glances thrown his way as he shuffles through the crowd, eyeing the most isolated row. He squeezes himself in, mumbling apologies, and sits down. He heaves a quiet sigh, already bummed. An English lit course at 8:30 AM is a cruel joke.

On his left are two girls chatting about their favorite skincare routine. On his right, another girl uses her phone, pretending she's not sneakily trying to take a picture of him. She's not as low-key as she thinks.

Joaquin repositions his glasses and faces sideways. And there, past the skincare girls, he recognizes a side profile he hadn't expected to see again. Those big, round eyes that used to light up so effortlessly, skin now a few shades lighter than he remembers, and hair that's grown longer, just brushing against his slightly pointed ears.

Joaquin blinks, rubbing his eyes. His mind must be playing tricks on him.

"Good morning, class."

The entrance of the professor compels the girls to shift positions, completely blocking his view. Joaquin follows suit, feeling disoriented.

No, it's not possible. He wouldn't be here. It's just someone who looks like him. He's back in Romblon, where his life is free of chaos.

Peaceful.

Joaquin shakes his head. This is what happens when he thinks about the past at night. Lesson learned. Don't walk down the memory lane, or you'll lose sleep and hallucinate.

The professor discusses the course syllabus, while Joaquin tries his very best to keep himself focused. The material is easy, a minor course he can breeze through. Except, he's aching to get a closer look at the guy two seats away from him. Just a confirmation would be enough.

So that he can return to his normal scheduled program.

But he's incredibly anxious... Terrified to be right. Because what would he do? What would he tell him? Should he even say something?

Or maybe he doesn't even remember him. After all, it's been six years. And he was younger and spirited. It makes sense that he's moved on. Made friends along the way. Friends who would have treated him better.

Friends who wouldn't ghost him for their own selfish reasons.

Another beep. Alexander is on his way. His 9 AM class has ended. Meanwhile, Joaquin's professor has derailed (again) the topic, sprinkling random stories here and there. Frankly, he seems fun. Too fun for 8:30 AM, however.

Joaquin unbuttons his collar, fingers drumming on the table. He's often kept his cool. The mere thought of someone from his childhood shouldn't get him on edge.

"That's all for today," the professor finally mutters. "Class dismissed."

Students start to pack up, eager to leave. Joaquin stays glued to his seat, packing up slowly. Stalling. He has to look. Once, at least. To shake this odd feeling off.

Joaquin glances to his left.

He has his head lowered, shoving things into his backpack.

Joaquin gulps, realizing that he's acting out of sync. Being ridiculous for his first day of senior year.

Get a grip.

He hastily gathers his stuff. Quick. This guy is certainly not him. He just can't be. What a foolish thought.

"Hi, excuse me?"

Joaquin pauses, his heart skipping a beat. The voice is different, but the tone, the energy–it's uncanny.

"Um? Sorry?"

Joaquin needs to move.

He can't stay stuck forever.

And so Joaquin flings his bag on his shoulder and looks up, meeting the gaze of the brightest soul he's ever met.