Chapter 3 — Echoes of High School

Violet

I should have unpacked. That was the rational thing to do, the thing that would let me feel more settled in this new world of creaking dorm beds and constant noise filtering through thin walls. Instead, I sat cross-legged on my blanket-less mattress, staring at the leather journal resting open in my lap. The soft brown cover was familiar under my fingers, the faint lavender scent still clinging to it like a whisper of home.

My pen hovered over the page, the ink poised to spill out thoughts I hadn’t entirely sorted yet. The tidy, slanted handwriting already filling the previous entry stared back at me, a reflection of how unsteady I’d felt walking into the mixer last night. How Maya had pulled me into her orbit so effortlessly, and how Emmett’s calm smile had soothed my nerves just enough to hold a conversation.

And then there was Archer.

I hadn’t written about him yet. The weight of his name sat heavy in my mind, like a stone lodged in my chest. I couldn’t even bring myself to write his initials. Instead, I wrote about the way my chest had tightened the moment I heard his laugh, the memories it dragged out of the shadows of my past. The ache of it, the sharp reminder of who I used to be.

My hand trembled slightly as I scribbled the words onto the page, the scene coming back with unnerving clarity. I could almost feel the cold linoleum beneath my feet, hear the dull echo of lockers slamming in the high school hallway.

*“Violet?” His voice had carried so casually, almost dismissively. “C’mon, she’s just Ryan’s little sister. That’s all.”*

The humiliation had hit in slow motion, like a drop of ink spreading across paper, staining everything it touched. My throat had tightened, my cheeks burning in silent mortification as I ducked away before anyone could see me.

I paused, my pen resting against the page as the memory settled, heavy and unshakable. I glanced toward the door, half-expecting Maya to burst in unannounced and snap me out of the moment. But the room stayed quiet, save for the faint hum of conversation filtering in from the hallway.

After a deep breath, I finished the thought:

*I told myself I’d moved on. And maybe I have, mostly. But when I see him, it’s like I’m sixteen again, standing in that hallway, wishing I could disappear. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop feeling like that girl when he’s around.*

I hesitated, my fingers grazing the edge of the page. A part of me wanted to sketch something—a swirl of lines to channel the knot of emotions Archer’s presence stirred in me. But instead, I closed the journal, the faint scent of lavender like a soft exhale against my frustration. The leather cover felt heavier now, weighted with memories I couldn’t quite let go of.

The morning sun hung higher in the sky by the time I stepped outside, bathing the campus in a soft golden light. The Quad stretched out in front of me, buzzing with life. Groups of students strolled toward the red-brick buildings, their laughter carried on the crisp autumn breeze. The scent of damp leaves mingled with the faint warmth of coffee from a nearby cart, making the air feel strangely alive.

I adjusted the strap on my bag, my steps faltering as I mentally retraced my schedule. The room number for my lecture hall blurred in my mind. Was it 201 or 210?

“Lost already?” Maya’s voice cut through my spiral, bright and teasing. I turned to find her jogging up beside me, her black braid bouncing against her shoulder. She wore a cropped burgundy sweater paired with high-waisted jeans, the geometric earrings from last night catching the sunlight like tiny prisms.

“Not yet,” I replied, though I wasn’t entirely sure it was true.

“Well, don’t worry, newbie. I’ve got your back. Where are you headed?”

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to my schedule. “Uh, Literary Analysis, room 201.”

Maya squinted at the building ahead. “Ah, Emerson Hall. I had a class there last semester. Easy peasy. Follow me.”

She fell into step beside me, her energy a strange but welcome contrast to my quiet nervousness. Her presence made the Quad feel less daunting, like the space between the ivy-covered buildings was shrinking into something more manageable.

As we neared Emerson Hall, Maya nudged me playfully. “So, are we gonna talk about last night, or am I just supposed to pretend I didn’t notice the way you froze when golden retriever boy showed up?”

My stomach clenched. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Maya stopped walking and turned to face me, her expression skeptical. “Really? Because you looked like you’d seen a ghost. A tall, blonde, ridiculously fit ghost, but still.”

I sighed, my grip tightening on my bag strap. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” she repeated, crossing her arms. “That sounds like code for ‘there’s a story here, but I don’t want to tell it.’”

Her perceptiveness was unnerving. I glanced at the entrance to Emerson Hall, so close yet just far enough to make an escape impossible. “It’s just… history. High school stuff. Nothing worth rehashing.”

Maya’s expression softened, her teasing edge giving way to something quieter, more understanding. “Fair enough. But if you ever feel like rehashing, I’m here.”

I nodded, the knot in my chest loosening slightly. “Thanks.”

She gave my shoulder a quick squeeze before peeling off toward her own class. “Good luck, newbie. You’ll do great.”

The lecture hall was large but inviting, with rows of wooden desks arranged in a gentle slope toward the professor’s podium. I slid into a seat near the middle, unpacking my notebook and pen. The faint scent of chalk and old books filled the air, grounding me in the present.

As students trickled in, the rustling of bags and quiet chatter created a low hum of anticipation. My eyes drifted to the window, where the trees outside swayed gently in the breeze.

The professor’s voice filled the room, warm and animated, as she launched into her introduction. She posed questions that sparked lively debates among the students, her passion for literature infectious. At one point, she paused, her gaze sweeping the room.

“Stories, at their core, are a reflection of their creators—of their fears, hopes, and contradictions. They mirror who we are, in ways we often can’t see until we step back.”

The comment struck something deep in me, like an arrow landing just off the mark but close enough to make me pause. Was my own story like that? A reflection of the past I couldn’t seem to escape?

The hour passed in a blur of notes and discussion, the kind of lively, thoughtful engagement that reminded me why I loved literature in the first place. When the class ended, I lingered for a moment, watching as the other students filed out. For the first time since arriving on campus, I felt a flicker of ease. Here, in the structured rhythm of a classroom, things felt familiar. Safe.

Maybe this place could be something good. A fresh start, like I’d promised myself.

But as I stepped back into the Quad, the fleeting optimism faltered. Across the expanse of grass and stone pathways, I spotted him—Archer Bennett.

He stood near the edge of the Quad, talking to Ryan with his hands shoved casually into his pockets. The sun caught the messy waves of his dark blonde hair, making him look effortlessly golden. Something in me tightened, the memory of his laugh from last night echoing in my mind. My chest felt suddenly tight, my throat dry. The crisp autumn air, which had felt invigorating just moments ago, now seemed too sharp, like it was slicing through my carefully constructed composure.

I kept walking, my pace quickening as I tried to keep my distance—and my resolve.

But in that brief moment, when his gaze swept across the Quad and landed on me, I could have sworn I saw something flicker in his expression. Recognition. Curiosity. Maybe even regret.

Ryan said something to him, his brow furrowing slightly as Archer’s gaze lingered on me. I turned away before I could see more, my heart thudding painfully in my chest.

I didn’t stop to find out.