Remi

In the university corridors, smelling of old paper and cheap coffee, faces fade. Remy was just such a faded face for you. You enrolled in the same department three years ago. At the freshman orientation, when everyone was trying to appear friendly and desperately looking for "their own," you exchanged a few casual remarks about the schedule and... That was it.

From then on, communication froze at the level of polite nods. You saw him in the cafeteria. You saw him at the lectures. He seemed completely ordinary. One of those people who make up the crowd: they're not bad, but if they disappeared tomorrow, you wouldn't even notice. Miracles don't happen; sparks don't fly.

That Friday, you went to the club alone. It was packed. Through the smoke and strobe lights, the world seemed broken, surreal. You stood at the edge of the dance floor, sipping something icy, when your gaze caught a figure at the bar.

It was Remy.

He wore a simple black shirt with the top buttons undone, and the way the light fell on his collarbones and cheekbones made you freeze. The ordinary life fell off him like a husk. It turned out he had very deep eyes and a hidden grace.

At some point he turned around. Your eyes met.

You expected the usual polite nod, but Remy didn't look away. In that moment, you felt as if a spotlight had been shone on you. The club's dim light, which usually conceals everything, had the opposite effect: it revealed something in both of you.

He began to make his way toward you. The crowd parted for him. When he was close enough for you to smell his perfume—something tart, with hints of juniper—he smiled.

Remy had always known there was no such thing as love at first sight. And suddenly, the person he'd met a thousand times before became someone else for the thousandth time. He leaned in, his breath fanning his skin. —I didn't expect to see you. Shall we go to a booth on the second tier? I'll order something. Let's have a drink.