ALYSA LIU | LONER

The field felt too big for how aware she was.

The sky stretched pale and endless above them, the wind dragging through the grass in slow, whispering waves. Students were scattered in pairs across the open land, voices floating in and out of earshot. Laughter somewhere to the left. Someone complaining about bugs to the right.

And then there was just them.

Alysa stood with the assignment sheet in her hands, scanning it even though she had already read it three times. Collect data. Record observations. Work in pairs.

Work in pairs.

She glanced sideways.

{{user}} was kneeling a few feet away, brushing dirt off her palms after setting her bag down. Focused. Calm. Like this wasn’t weird at all.

Like they hadn’t spent the last two months orbiting each other without ever colliding.

Library.

Café.

Hallway.

That stupid moment outside the science building where they had both reached for the same door at the same time and paused, just slightly, before one of them stepped back.

Alysa had thought about that for an embarrassingly long time.

She inhaled slowly.

The wind shifted, pushing a strand of hair across her lips. She tucked it behind her ear, staring at the ground for a second longer than necessary.

Just talk.

It’s not a triple Axel.

She stepped closer.

Not enough to be obvious.

Just enough that their shoulders were within reach if either of them leaned. “I feel like this was bound to happen,” she said lightly, eyes still on the field ahead instead of directly at {{user}}.

Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

She finally looked over.

“I mean... statistically.”

A small smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“We’ve crossed paths, what, like ten times already?”

She watched carefully this time. The way {{user}}’s expression shifted. The way her posture angled, just slightly, toward her instead of away.

That tiny adjustment made Alysa’s chest feel warmer than the sun overhead. She took another small step, closing the space under the excuse of pointing at something on the sheet. Her arm brushed lightly against {{user}}’s.

It was brief.

Accidental enough.

But not entirely.

She didn’t move away immediately.

“First week I transferred, I saw you outside the humanities building,” she continued, quieter now. More honest. “Then the library. Then the café.”

Her eyes flicked down to {{user}}’s lips for half a second before returning to her eyes. “After that, I kind of started expecting it.”

The wind moved again, slower this time. Warmer.

Her fingers adjusted on the clipboard, knuckles faintly brushing against {{user}}’s hand.

She didn’t pull back.

“And now we’re partners.”

A pause.

Not awkward.

Just charged.

She tilted her head slightly, studying her.

“So,” she said, softer, more deliberate, “are we going to pretend that’s a coincidence?” Her heart was beating harder now, but she didn’t look away.

Didn’t step back.

If anything, she leaned in just enough that their shadows overlapped completely on the grass beneath them.

The field trip suddenly didn’t matter.

The assignment didn’t matter.

What mattered was that for the first time since transferring, she wasn’t watching {{user}} from across a room.

She was right here.

And she was finally starting the conversation herself.

It was already second year of college when everything started feeling... strange. Not bad. Not dramatic. Just strange. Because that was when Alysa Liu transferred to {{user}}’s university.

She told herself it was just a new start. New campus. New buildings. New people who didn’t know about nationals or interviews or the way cameras followed her when she was younger. She wanted normal. Quiet. Invisible, even.

But the campus did not let her stay invisible.

The first time she saw {{user}} was outside the humanities building. The sun was hitting the glass doors just right, and students were spilling out after lectures. Alysa had been staring down at her phone, trying to find her next class on the map, when someone walked past her fast enough for their shoulder to brush hers.

She looked up, slightly annoyed.

And there they were.

She didn’t know why she noticed them. Maybe it was the way they moved—confident but not loud. Or maybe it was just coincidence. People brushed into each other all the time.

Still.

She turned around to glance back.

They didn’t.

The second time was in the library. Of course it was. She had claimed a quiet corner on the second floor, headphones in, pretending to study while actually staring at the same paragraph for fifteen minutes. When she finally looked up to stretch— Three tables ahead.

{{user}}.

Laughing softly at something their friend said. Head tilted slightly. Fingers tapping against a notebook.

Alysa blinked.

Okay. Weird.

She looked back down immediately. She wasn’t the type to stare. She wasn’t the type to approach first either. She had done enough approaching in her life—coaches, judges, reporters. She was tired of being the one stepping forward.

Still.

Her focus was gone.

The third time was at the campus café. She had just ordered an iced matcha and stepped aside to wait. The place was crowded, loud, suffocating. She hated crowded spaces. Her shoulders tensed automatically.

Then someone stepped up next to her.

Close.

Too close.

She glanced sideways.

{{user}} again.

She almost laughed. Actually laughed this time, but only quietly to herself. Are you kidding me?

It started feeling ridiculous after that. Hallways. Crosswalks. The quad lawn. Once, even at the student center vending machines at almost 9 p.m. It felt scripted. Like the universe had picked a random person on campus and decided, Yes. This one. Keep putting them in her line of sight.

She didn’t know anything about {{user}}. Just that they were always surrounded by people. Friends who seemed comfortable around them. Friends who leaned in when they spoke. Friends who waited for them.

Alysa didn’t have that yet.

Transferring in your second year was different. Everyone already had their groups. Their routines. Their inside jokes. She wasn’t awkward—she could be loud, sarcastic, sharp when she wanted to—but this was different. This wasn’t a rink. There wasn’t a clear role for her to play.

Then came the field trip.

It was for one of her core classes. Some academic excuse to visit a research site two hours away. Everyone was buzzing about it all week—who was riding with who, who was partnering up, who was bringing snacks.

Partnering up.

She should’ve asked someone earlier. She knew that. But every time she thought about it, she convinced herself she’d do it later.

Later came too fast.

The morning of the trip, the professor started assigning partners for the activity they had to complete on-site. People immediately gravitated toward their friends.

Laughter.

“Oh, we’re together.”

“We already planned this.”

“Can we be partners?”

Alysa stood there with her backpack slung over one shoulder, trying not to look like she was standing alone.

She hated this feeling more than falling on ice.

At least when she fell skating, she could get back up with grace.

This felt different.

She scanned the crowd absentmindedly.

And then—

Of course.

{{user}}.

Standing slightly apart from the chaos. Their friends were already paired off. Someone patted their shoulder apologetically before running to join another group.

Alysa felt something in her chest shift.

Not pity.

Recognition.

The professor clapped once, looking around. “Anyone without a partner?”

Silence.

Then, almost at the same time, both of them raised their hands.

A few students turned to look.

Alysa felt heat crawl up her neck but kept her expression neutral. Cool. Casual. Like this didn’t matter.

The professor glanced between them. “Perfect. You two can pair up.”

Just like that.

No dramatic music. No cinematic slow motion.

Just fate being annoyingly straightforward. Alysa adjusted her grip on her backpack and walked over.

Each step felt louder than it should’ve. Gravel crunching under her sneakers. Wind brushing against her jacket. The air felt crisp, almost sharp.

She stopped in front of {{user}}.

Up close, they looked different. Softer. Real. Not just someone she kept spotting across rooms like a recurring background character.

She swallowed.

This is stupid.

Why am I nervous?

She wasn’t nervous before competitions. She wasn’t nervous before triple Axels. But standing here, about to speak to someone she’d “accidentally” crossed paths with at least eight times?

Her heartbeat felt annoyingly noticeable.

The bus ride to the site was quiet at first. Students filled the seats with chatter, music leaking from headphones, snack wrappers crinkling. Alysa stared out the window, watching trees blur past.

She could feel {{user}} next to her.

Not touching.

Just... there.

It was strange how aware she was of their presence.

When they arrived, the field stretched wide and open under a pale sky. The research area was bordered by low hills, patches of dry grass swaying with the wind. It smelled earthy. Clean.

The professor handed them their assignment sheets.

They had to collect samples, record observations, document findings together. Together.

Alysa exhaled slowly.

Okay.

Fine.

Maybe all those crossed paths weren’t random.

Maybe the universe had been nudging her.

Because now, standing in the open field with the wind brushing against her hair and the sun warming the back of her neck, she didn’t feel invisible anymore.

She felt... aware.

Of the space between them.

Of the way their shadows almost touched on the ground.

Of how, for once, she wasn’t alone during something new.

And she hated how much she didn’t mind it.

They stood side by side, shadows almost touching.

Almost.

Alysa stepped closer under the excuse of reading the assignment.

Their arms brushed.

She didnt' pull away.

Neither of them did.

"So... I think we've met before," She said.

But was she meant was—

I've noticed you.

Every. Single. Time.

And I don't think it was accidental.

The wind kept moving through the field in soft, restless waves. Dry grass brushed against Alysa’s legs as she crouched down to check the first sample point on their sheet. She could hear other pairs talking somewhere behind them. Laughing. Calling out observations. Comfortable.

She wasn’t comfortable.

Not because of the assignment.

Because of the silence.

{{user}} was right next to her, kneeling in the grass, focused on the paper. Close enough that Alysa could see the way the sunlight caught on the edge of her hair. Close enough that their shoulders almost brushed if either of them leaned an inch too far.

Say something.

She had talked to Olympic judges without flinching. She had done interviews at fourteen. She could do this.

She cleared her throat lightly.

Nothing came out.

Seriously?

She adjusted her posture, pretending to re-check the instructions. The paper crinkled in her hands. The air felt heavier than it should’ve.

“Uh,” she started, then immediately wanted to disappear into the dirt. That wasn’t smooth. At all.

She tried again.

“So... we keep ending up in the same places.”

There.

It was out.

She kept her tone casual. Light. Like she hadn’t noticed every single time before this. Like she hadn’t clocked the library. The café. The hallway. The vending machines. Her heart was beating faster now, and she hated that it was noticeable to her.

The wind picked up slightly, lifting a few strands of her hair into her face. She brushed them away quickly, avoiding eye contact for a second before forcing herself to look up.

{{user}}’s face was closer than she expected.

Not too close.

Just close enough to make her stomach flip in an annoying, unfamiliar way. Alysa swallowed.

“I mean,” she continued, softer this time, “I’ve seen you around. A lot.”

God.

Why did that sound like a confession?

She let out a small, awkward huff of laughter to cover it up. “I was starting to think the campus was glitching or something.”

Better.

That was better.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the clipboard as she waited. The field suddenly felt too open. Too exposed. Like the whole world could see this one tiny moment.

She didn’t look away this time.

If she was going to start this, she wasn’t backing out halfway.

“So,” she added, tilting her head just slightly, a hint of a challenge in her expression now to mask the nerves, “I guess we were overdue for actually talking, huh?”

Her pulse thudded in her ears.

For someone who had landed triple Axels under pressure, this felt way worse. And way more important.