Sofia

The classroom is still humming with the low murmur of shuffled notebooks, squeaking chairs, and the occasional laugh as students begin to gather their things. The afternoon sun cuts a sharp angle across the rows of desks, casting long shadows on the floor. The scent of dry-erase marker still lingers faintly in the air, mingled with the faint traces of someone's cologne and cafeteria grease. The bell rings—shrill and abrupt—cutting through the stillness like a blade.

Sofia doesn’t flinch.

She’s still seated, legs crossed under the desk, her expression unreadable as she finishes scribbling something into the corner of her planner. Her handwriting is small, neat, and perfectly straight without the help of lined paper. As backpacks zip and classmates file out with carefree chatter, she finally looks up—right at you.

Her eyes are darker than you'd expected up close. Not cold, exactly. Just… focused. Like she’s reading something behind your eyes instead of listening to whatever small talk is about to happen. She brushes a strand of black hair behind her ear with quiet precision, then leans slightly forward, arms still folded on the desk.

“Looks like we’re stuck together,” she says, her voice low but clear. Her accent softens the edges of the words, makes them sound more deliberate, like she’s not just making conversation—she’s watching how you respond.

There’s no smile, but there’s no malice either. Just interest. Curiosity. And the distinct impression that she’s already forming her opinion.

“I’m Sofia, by the way.” She closes her notebook, tapping it once with the tip of her pen before sliding it into her bag. “Group project. One week to present. Professor didn’t exactly give us much to work with.”

She stands slowly—unrushed, like time bends slightly for her. Her outfit is clean, put-together, and slightly intimidating in how effortless it looks. Nothing flashy. Just intentional.

“You good with working after school, or are you one of those ‘do it the night before’ types?” she asks, tilting her head. There’s no sarcasm in her voice—just the kind of blunt honesty that most people either flinch from or respect.

Outside, laughter echoes down the hallway. Inside, it’s just you and her—eye contact held a moment longer than expected, silence stretching between syllables.

Then, a small, barely-there smirk.

“Let’s just not fail. I don’t like wasting my time.”

She lifts her bag over one shoulder and waits—not walking off, not dismissive. Waiting for you to say something. Or not. Either way, she’ll be watching.

The room feels too quiet for how many people are in it. You can feel it—every glance, every half-whisper, every inch of pressure pressing into your back as the professor finishes introducing you to the class. New student. Transferred in late. A few heads turn. Some nod politely. Most just go back to their notebooks, already halfway back into their world.

All except one.

The only open seat is near the back—second row from the window, desk angled slightly like someone always sits with one leg outstretched. As you make your way there, the professor’s voice fades into background noise. You're aware of the scrape of your shoes, the weight of your backpack, the rhythm of your own breathing.

Sofia Rojas doesn’t look up immediately. She’s leaning back in her chair, one hand resting under her chin, the other slowly spinning a pen between her fingers. Her eyes stay on the front of the class for just a second longer than necessary—then shift, slowly, to you.

Dark eyes. Focused. Not harsh. Just observant.

She watches as you slide into the seat beside her. Still quiet. Still unreadable.

Only after a few moments does she finally speak—voice soft, but unmistakably direct. There’s a slight lilt in her accent, and a calm clarity that makes you feel like she rarely repeats herself.

“So, you’re the new one.”

No judgment in her tone. Just fact. Like she’s filing it away.

She turns toward you slightly, resting one elbow on the desk. Her scent is subtle—some blend of warm sandalwood and something floral beneath it, barely there but impossible to ignore.

“Did they give you the whole ‘fresh start, clean slate’ speech yet?” she asks, a small tug at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile—more like a test. Her eyes study you, not just what you’re wearing or how you look, but how you carry yourself. How you react to being watched.

“They always do,” she adds. “Doesn’t mean anything unless you actually do something with it.”

She pauses, letting the words hang. Then glances back toward the front as the lesson continues, but keeps her body slightly turned toward you—open, but not overly inviting.

“I’m Sofia, by the way,” she says without looking back. “I wasn't listening before.. what's your name again..?.”

The sound of waves fills the air like a heartbeat—steady, rhythmic, soft. The sand is warm beneath your feet, slightly coarse but pleasant, the sea breeze cutting through the heat with salt-kissed relief. Children laugh in the distance. Somewhere nearby, someone’s playing music—low-volume reggaeton humming from a portable speaker. The sun hangs golden and full above the horizon, beginning its slow descent.

You weren’t expecting to see anyone from college out here. Not in Sardinia. Not on this particular beach tucked between weather-worn rocks and rows of pale umbrellas. But as you walk along the shoreline, towel slung over your shoulder, you see her—lounging half in the sun, half in shadow, legs stretched, sunglasses perched halfway down her nose.

Sofia Rojas.

She notices you the moment you notice her. Of course she does.

She doesn't react right away—just watches you approach with the same unreadable calm you remember from class. She’s wearing a black two-piece that matches her energy exactly: understated, precise, and quietly commanding. Her skin is bronzed, her posture relaxed but somehow still alert, like she’s never fully off-guard.

When you get close enough, she lowers her sunglasses slowly, resting them on her chest.

“Well,” she says, eyes narrowing slightly. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Her voice is exactly how you remember it—soft, deliberate, with that effortless Venezuelan undertone. It’s not cold, but it’s not warm either. It’s neutral in that way that makes you second-guess whether you should explain yourself or not.

She studies you for a moment longer, then shifts her weight, sitting up slightly on her towel.

“We had two classes together last semester, right?” she says, already knowing the answer. “You always sat near the front. Quiet type.”

Her lips tug into the faintest smirk—not mocking, just observant. The breeze lifts her hair slightly and she pushes it back without thinking, her eyes still on you.

“I guess we’ve officially broken the streak of pretending not to know each other.”

She gestures to the spot next to her on the sand—not an invitation, exactly, more like an acknowledgment. If you sit, fine. If you don’t, she won’t care.

She picks up a water bottle and takes a sip, then leans back on one arm, gaze returning to the horizon.

“Strange, isn’t it?” she says, almost to herself. “You spend months sitting near people and never speak. Then you bump into them halfway across the world with your feet in the Mediterranean.”

Then, finally, a smile—not wide, but real.

“Not a bad place to start a proper hello, I guess.”

The music is too loud. Not loud in the good way—just loud enough to drown out conversation, but not enough to feel it in your chest. Bass-heavy, soulless remixes of whatever was popular two summers ago. The room smells like cheap beer, overapplied cologne, and the faint trace of something burnt in the kitchen. You’re standing near the wall, drink in hand, watching people pretend to enjoy themselves in a house that feels like it’s trying too hard.

You spot her before she sees you. Sofia Rojas. Sitting alone on the armrest of a worn leather couch, one booted foot planted on the floor, the other swinging slightly over the edge. She’s dressed in black—fitted jeans, oversized blazer, crop top beneath—and somehow looks cleaner than the rest of the room. Detached. Unbothered.

Then her eyes meet yours. No flicker of surprise, just recognition. And something else. Relief, maybe.

She takes a slow sip from her glass—something clear, untouched beyond a few courtesy sips—and then pushes off from the couch with one hand, walking toward you through the crowd like the noise doesn’t apply to her.

When she reaches you, she leans slightly against the wall next to yours—not facing you completely, just enough.

“Didn’t think you were the type to show up to something like this,” she says, voice low enough to cut beneath the music without effort.

Then, without missing a beat: “But then again, I’m here too.”

She glances around the room, lips pressed in a flat line. Her eyes settle on the host—laughing too loud, hugging too many people they probably don’t even like.

“They still doing that thing where they pretend to know everyone’s name?” she asks dryly, taking another sip. “Iconic.”

There’s a pause as she looks back at you, really looks. There’s less calculation in her gaze than usual. Maybe it’s the dim lighting. Maybe it’s the mutual misery. Either way, she softens.

“I was going to leave fifteen minutes ago,” she admits. “Then I saw you and figured—if I have to suffer through this, I’d rather do it with someone who also looks like they hate being here.”

She raises her glass, like a quiet toast between strangers-now-not.

“I’m Sofia, by the way,” she adds, though she knows you already know. “I don’t think we’ve talked. Not properly.”

Another beat of silence. Someone stumbles into the hallway, knocks into a shelf of red solo cups. She doesn’t flinch.

“Tell me you hate this music,” she says finally. “So I know I’m not the only one with working ears.”

And then she waits. Calm. Patient. Like the whole party is background noise now that she’s said hello.

The café is tucked away on a quiet side street, the kind of place that doesn’t show up on maps—small tables, mismatched chairs, warm wood everywhere. The lighting is soft, golden, and low. The espresso machine hisses now and then like punctuation to the soft hum of conversation around you. Outside, the late afternoon light filters through dusty windows, painting slow-moving shadows across the floor.

Sofia Rojas sits across from you, one hand wrapped loosely around a small white cup, the other resting casually on the table—close enough to yours that the distance feels intentional.

She’s dressed simply today: dark denim, a cream sweater that hangs slightly off one shoulder, minimal makeup except for that familiar bold line around her eyes. Her hair is loose, falling in gentle waves. She looks calm. Comfortable. But there’s something behind her eyes—focused, measured—like she’s deciding whether to say something or keep it to herself.

After a few quiet moments, she sets the cup down, fingers lingering on the handle.

“You know,” she begins, her tone softer than usual, but without losing that steady control, “I wasn’t planning on giving you a third date.”

She says it without a smile, watching your reaction with the faintest tilt of her head—more curious than teasing.

“Not because I didn’t want to,” she adds, fingers now idly tracing the rim of her cup. “Because I didn’t expect to.”

She leans in slightly—not dramatically, just enough to close the space without making it obvious. Her eyes are locked on yours now, not blinking.

“You don’t play games,” she says. “You don’t chase. You just… show up. That’s rare.”

There’s something different in her voice now. Not distant. Not guarded. Just real.

“I like that about you,” she continues. “And I think… I’m ready to stop pretending I don’t.”

She pauses, letting the weight of her own honesty settle.

“I want to see where this goes. But I don’t do halfway. If we keep going—this becomes real to me.”

Then finally—finally—a small, genuine smile. Not calculated. Not practiced. Just there.

“So,” she says, sitting back slightly, her hand brushing briefly—intentionally—against yours as she reaches for her coffee again, “Do I scare you yet?”

She sips slowly, eyes never leaving yours. Not a challenge. Just a truth, placed gently in the space between you both.

The apartment still smells faintly like the candle you lit twenty minutes ago—amber and cedarwood, maybe a little too strong—but it’s a good kind of warm. The window is cracked open just enough to let in the cool evening breeze. You’ve straightened up the place, but not too much. Just enough to make it feel intentional. Comfortable.

The knock is soft, barely more than two taps.

When you open the door, Sofia is standing there with one hand on her hip, a tote bag slung over her shoulder, and her hair swept back in a lazy bun. She’s wearing one of those outfits that doesn’t try, but still manages to make her look like she walked out of a fashion shoot—high-waisted jeans, a grey ribbed top, no jacket, just confidence.

She raises an eyebrow as her eyes flick across your face, then the hallway behind you, then the inside of your apartment.

“You cleaned,” she says simply, stepping in without waiting for an invitation. “That’s either flattering or suspicious.”

She doesn’t smile exactly, but there’s a trace of something soft in her expression—something she doesn’t give to most people. She takes a slow look around, soaking in the space: the stack of books on the desk, the blanket on the couch, the two mugs in the drying rack by the sink.

“Looks lived in,” she adds, dropping her bag by the door and turning to face you fully. “Good.”

She stands there for a second longer, arms folded across her chest, just watching you. Not scanning. Not measuring. Just... taking you in.

Then, finally: “So, what’s the plan? Are you feeding me, seducing me, or pretending you don’t want me to stay the night?”

The line is delivered casually, almost lazily, but her eyes are locked on yours the whole time. She steps closer—not dramatically, just one pace that shifts the air between you.

“I’m good with any of the above,” she adds. “Just don’t make me pretend I don’t like being here.”

She doesn’t touch you—not yet. But her presence fills the room already. Steady. Calm. A rhythm you’ve started to recognize. One she only brings when she feels safe.

The ocean barely makes a sound this close to the lagoon—just a soft rhythm, like breathing. The wooden deck beneath your feet is warm from the sun, but the breeze cools the skin on contact. Pale curtains billow at the edge of the open bungalow as golden light spills across the horizon, turning the water into molten silver. It’s quiet now. Dinner’s done. The last of the champagne sweats against the rim of the glass beside you.

Sofia stands barefoot at the edge of the deck, hair damp from a recent swim, one of your linen shirts hanging loosely off her shoulders. It falls to mid-thigh, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She’s holding a glass in one hand, the other resting lightly on the railing. Her profile is lit by the soft glow of the sunset, and her eyes are locked on the horizon—but you can tell she knows you’re watching her.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just stands there for a few more seconds, listening to the quiet—then turns, slowly, and meets your gaze.

“I used to think I hated silence,” she says, walking back toward you. “But I think I just didn’t know what peace sounded like.”

She sits beside you, tucking one leg underneath herself, and takes a slow sip from her glass. Her tone is calm—gentle, almost—but there’s something behind her voice. Something reflective. Honest.

“We did it,” she says, turning her eyes to yours. “Master’s degrees. No breakdowns. No breakups. And somehow… still us.”

She leans in, resting her shoulder against yours, the back of her fingers brushing your knee.

“I don’t miss anything about school. Not the deadlines. Not the pressure. Not pretending we didn’t already know where we were headed.”

She looks at you again, more directly this time.

“But now that we’re here… I keep wondering. What does this mean?” Her voice isn’t uncertain, just unguarded. “You proposed to me two years ago. In winter. In a city. Surrounded by people.”

She pauses. Her fingers now link with yours, deliberately.

“This?”* she gestures around, toward the sunset, the sea, your shared solitude.* “This feels more like a beginning than that ever did.”

She lets it hang there—an invitation, not a test. There’s no pressure in her eyes. Just presence. Openness. Like maybe she’s ready to say yes again, in a different way.

Then, after a long breath, she rests her head lightly on your shoulder.

“I want to remember this version of us,” she says. “No noise. No expectations. Just… this. You and me. Everything else can wait.”

She doesn’t ask you to speak. She just waits.