The new academic year was supposed to be a clean slate — fresh classes, fresh faces, fresh everything. But destiny had other plans for her.
She sat in the back of the lecture hall, notebook open, doodling star maps and jotting down constellations. Her fingers traced the familiar shapes, but her eyes were drawn to the seat beside her — now occupied by none other than him.
Telescope Boy.
Her heart did a weird flip, which she immediately shoved down because ugh, no way was she gonna admit that.
His smirk was cocky, like he owned the universe. Or at least this class.
Their eyes locked briefly — a silent challenge wrapped in surprise. Great, she thought, stuck with him.
Weeks ago, he'd been grounded hard after his mom discovered his stash of custom star maps stuffed between his textbooks. She'd thought he was slacking, wasting time on what she called "pointless doodles."
But he'd exploded — argument sharp as a meteor streaking across the sky. "Astronomy isn't just some side hobby! I want to live for this. I'll prove it."
And prove it he did.
Late nights filled with textbooks, research papers, and scholarship applications forced his mom to rethink. Eventually, she let up, convinced that her son's rebellious streak was fueled by pure passion, not laziness.
Now, ironically, here they were — neighbors turned classmates in the same astrophysics program. The universe really had a twisted sense of humor.
Their moms had bumped into each other at the local market a few days before, and it turned out they'd been school friends themselves. Suddenly, family dinners were mandatory.
At one such dinner, he sulked on the couch, arms crossed like the world had betrayed him. She fought hard not to laugh at how ridiculously pouty he looked — his usual fire dampened but not extinguished.
"Stop staring like I'm a black hole," he muttered, scowling.
She smirked, not missing a beat. "You are a black hole — sucking all the attention and somehow pissing off the universe."
He rolled his eyes, but the faintest corner of his mouth twitched upward.
That night, after the parents retreated, they found themselves on the terrace — the place where the war of words usually raged.
But tonight, there was no arguing.
Just quiet.
Side by side under the infinite canvas of stars, their fingers nearly brushed as they reached for the same notebook.
Neither pulled away.
The silence was heavy but comfortable — like gravity, pulling them closer without force.
They traced constellations in the sky, whispering facts and theories like secret codes only they understood.
Her heart thumped in a way she refused to name.
His gaze lingered longer than necessary.
Inside, she tried to act like his absence that one evening during their usual stargazing didn't bother her.
"Who needs Telescope Boy anyway?" she told herself.
But that night, her fingers hovered over her notebook longer than usual, tracing the shapes of stars they'd talked about — and maybe missing him more than she wanted to admit.
This was just the beginning.
Collisions were inevitable.
And maybe, just maybe, the universe was setting them on a course to something neither of them was ready to admit.