Grace rushes toward Building 101. Spotting the elevator stalled on the fourth floor, she pivots and bolts up the stairs to Room 403. Just as she reaches the door, she stops and takes a sharp breath.
Here I go…
She opens the door. The classroom falls silent. It's already 9:00 a.m., and the class began at 8:30. Twenty students and the professor turn to stare at her.
"I'm sorry," Grace says quickly, making her way toward the back of the room.
The classroom is built like a small lecture hall, the seats tiered like those in a movie theater. She climbs to the very last row and slips into an empty seat.
She recognizes the professor—Professor Candice. She took her class two years ago. One of the most passionate professors Grace has ever had—and now the dean of the department.
"It's okay," Professor Candice says briefly, returning to the syllabus on the screen.
Grace opens her black backpack and pulls out her laptop. The moment she lifts the lid, the loud startup chime blares through the room.
"Oh—" she gasps, hurriedly tapping the mute button.
A soft chuckle comes from her right. She turns her head and sees a guy about her age, dressed in a white shirt and black blazer, flashing a relaxed, slightly smug smile.
"Hello," he says casually.
"Hello," Grace replies shortly, her smile tight and reserved.
He leans a little closer and whispers, "Are you sure you're in the right classroom? This one's for Media Studies majors."
"I took a year off," she says. "I'm back now."
His expression shifts, as though something clicks into place.
"Ah, that explains it. I was wondering—thought you might've walked into the wrong room. I know pretty much everyone in our major." He offers his hand, grinning. "Nice to meet you. I'm Harry."
Harry stretches out his hand.
Grace glances toward the front, where Professor Candice is still deeply immersed in the syllabus, then turns back to Harry. She's surprised by how casually he's talking—even in whispers—during the first class.
"Umm… hello," she says, hesitantly taking his hand, more out of politeness than interest.
Harry flashes a beaming smile, releases her hand, and turns his attention back to the professor, who is speaking with her usual passionate intensity.
He's sort of weird… Grace thinks. She sneaks another glance at him. He looks… okay. Decent, I guess. His features are well-structured, and there's a certain brightness to his expression—especially around the mouth. Confident, maybe too confident.
She quickly shakes her head. What am I doing? Focus.
Grace turns back to her laptop, opens the course website, logs in, and pulls up the syllabus for the major program she's automatically registered in.
As she scrolls, Harry leans a little closer and whispers, "So… did you choose your elective for this term?"
Grace tilts her head slightly toward him. He's smiling again—this time with a mischievous glint, as if he knows he's being distracting.
She glances toward the front. Professor Candice doesn't seem to notice—or care. She's completely absorbed in her explanation.
In a low voice, Grace replies, "No, not really."
"What do you mean, 'not really'? You didn't choose an elective yet?"
"Yeah…" Grace nods, covering her mouth with her hand as she speaks to keep her lips from moving too visibly. It's not that she's uptight about talking in class—especially not in university—but she respects Professor Candice. She's taken her class before and knows how passionate she is about teaching. Grace doesn't want to come across as disrespectful.
Harry whispers again, "Then take an elective with me."
Grace blinks. Why is he being so friendly? We just met. Then again, maybe he's just that type—breezy, social, not overthinking things. Don't be so judgmental, she reminds herself.
She sighs softly and whispers back, "What course are you taking?"
"Here, take a look at it."
Harry passes his laptop across the three empty seats between them. Grace awkwardly reaches for it, balancing it on her knees.
"Well, you could've just told me the course name…" she mutters, eyes scanning the screen.
Then she freezes.
Wait… what…?
Her brows furrow as she zooms in on the image of the professor displayed on Harry's course registration page. Under the soft sunlight streaming through an old campus window stands a man in a dark suit, wearing black-rimmed glasses.
He looks exactly like—
Julian… And also the man from my dream—the one who saved me.
Grace scrolls quickly, heart tapping louder than before. She lands on the name.
Professor Julian Silver
Faculty of Arts and Design
"What…" she breathes out, eyes wide in disbelief.
Harry reaches over with a casual grin and retrieves the laptop. "I guess you already know this professor?" he jokes, clearly unaware of Grace's internal storm.
Her mouth is slightly ajar, still processing what she's just seen.
Harry chuckles. "He's like a campus legend now. Every girl won't shut up about him. Super good-looking, young professor. I think he's… thirty-five? Anyway, not really my type of topic, but I heard the history of fashion design course is actually fun."
He leans back a bit, completely at ease. "So? Want to take it with me?"
Grace doesn't respond right away. Her mind is still stuck on Julian Lenter. The man who appeared in her dream with the black leather jacket and motorcycle, the one who pulled her out of darkness like some kind of cinematic rescuer.
"…Sure," she finally says, barely above a whisper. "Let's take it together."
She opens her laptop again with sudden urgency. One seat left. Without hesitation, she registers.
Her eyes scan his introduction page.
Born: June 1990
Background: A decade in the fashion industry. Founder of a global fashion brand. Joined the university last semester as a guest lecturer. Officially retired from the industry.
Grace stares at his photo again. There's that unmistakable jawline. The calm eyes. The… presence.
What are you doing, Grace. Get a grip.
She shuts her laptop firmly, as if cutting off the electric line connecting her thoughts to Julian. With a deep breath, she forces herself to focus back on Professor Candice's voice.
And from that moment, she listens intently—perhaps even too intently. But no matter how hard she tries to shake it, Julian's image stays nestled in the back of her mind, like a bookmark she can't remove. Black leather jacket. Motorcycle. That look in his eyes.
Before she knows it, the two-hour class is over.
Grace hurriedly packs up her things. Just as she's zipping up her backpack, Harry turns to her and speaks up, not even bothering to lower his voice now.
"Your number, please," he says, extending his phone toward her with a boyish grin.
"Oh… okay."
Grace takes the phone from Harry and quickly types in her number. He grabs it back with a grin and nods.
"Wait, I don't even know your name. What's your name?"
"Grace Silver," she says, a little distracted.
Harry repeats it out loud, typing it into his contacts. "Grace Silver. Well then, I'll see you tomorrow at the History of Fashion Design course."
"Okay, great." Grace flashes a quick smile, then hurries out of the classroom.
I need to check with my own eyes.
She bolts down the stairs, out the main building, and into the bright sunlight. Digging into her bag, she pulls out her phone—the same iPhone Julian gave her. She opens Google Maps and types: Faculty of Art and Design.
Hope he's there in his office…
She starts running.
Five minutes of a mix between fast walking and sprinting later, Grace arrives at the building. It's quiet, almost museum-like, the kind of place where creativity lives in dusty corners and warm sunlight.
She heads straight to the elevator, presses 5. As the elevator hums upward, she checks her reflection in the mirror.
Gray T-shirt. Red cardigan. Black slacks. Minimal. Presentable.
She smiles faintly at the mirror, then blinks.
Why am I practicing a smile?
She quickly turns away from the reflection.
Get a grip, Grace.
The elevator dings. She steps out and turns right, following the hallway lined with doors and nameplates. At the very end, she finds it.
Professor Julian Lenter
A small sign is pinned beneath it: Out of Office
Grace stares at the sign, lips pressing into a line.
He's probably teaching in class right now…
She bites the inside of her cheek, hesitating. She's not even sure what she was going to say. Maybe ask for his account number so she can finally pay him back. Maybe just… see him.
But now, standing here, it feels foolish.
What am I even doing?
She turns around, slowly heading back toward the elevator. Her steps echo a little in the empty hallway.
I'll see him tomorrow anyway… first day of class. That's enough.
As she waits for the elevator, her heart gives one final, hopeful tug.
Wouldn't it be something… if the elevator doors opened and he was standing there? Like a movie.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open.
No one's inside.
A small sigh escapes her lips—part relief, part disappointment.
She steps in, presses the button, and leans back against the cool metal wall.
Why am I scared to see him? And why do I want to see him so badly?
The elevator carries her down to the lobby. She walks out into the afternoon warmth of the campus, the sun brushing her shoulders like reassurance.
Tomorrow, she thinks. Tomorrow I'll see him.
And with that, she blends into the bright, summer day—half certain, half trembling, and completely unaware of how much their reunion will mean to them both.