My alarm goes off at 5:47 AM, and I silence it before the first beep finishes. Three minutes earlier than yesterday. Either I'm getting better at this whole "functional adult" thing, or I'm getting more paranoid about being late. Probably both.
I slide out of bed and pad to the kitchenette, stepping over the stack of library books I dumped by the door. *The Great Gatsby* glares up at me like it personally resents my existence. Same, Gatsby.
Coffee first. Literary breakdowns second.
The coffee maker gurgles to life while I check my phone. Three texts from Maya, my roommate currently studying abroad in Spain and somehow still invested in campus gossip.
*Maya: OMG did you see the campus gossip page???*
*Maya: President Stan's son is coming back from Argentina!!*
*Maya: Faith. FAITH. This is huge news and you're probably asleep like a responsible person but STILL.*
I roll my eyes. Maya thrives on drama; I avoid it like a final exam I didn't study for.
*Me: president son returns to finish school. Groundbreaking.*
She replies instantly.
*Maya: He's GORGEOUS and mysterious. Disappeared for 2 years after family drama. It's hot. Also, pics. Go look.*
*Maya: My best friend is single and needs to get out more 😉*
I don't reply. I've got bigger problems than the return of Campus Royalty. Like Mr. Lurther's soul-crushing literary theory class or the fact that I'm three shifts away from next month's rent.
The coffee beeps. I pour it into my chipped, overworked mug and inhale the smell like it's hope in liquid form. After dressing—dark jeans, cream sweater, worn boots—I tug my hair into a messy bun and study my reflection. My mother's eyes, Aunt Sarah always says. Everything else? Just me. Ordinary. Steady.
The kind of girl who builds her life on quiet routines and predictable outcomes because she knows what it's like to lose everything. When you're six and your parents' plane vanishes over the Pacific, you learn quickly: control is safety. Spontaneity is danger.
By 6:15, I'm out the door. My bag holds textbooks, my lucky pen, and enough overpreparedness to survive a zombie apocalypse.
Bean There is already buzzing when I arrive. The warm scent of espresso and cinnamon greets me like a hug. Mrs. Chen waves me behind the counter. We move in sync, me taking orders, her manning the machines — a quiet rhythm of practiced routine.
"Double shot vanilla latte, extra hot," I call to Professor Martinez.
"Ready for Lurther's literary gauntlet?" he asks, smiling.
"As ready as anyone can be for psychological warfare wrapped in MLA citations."
He chuckles and leaves a perfect 15% tip.
At 7:45, the rush dies down. Mrs. Chen hands me a fresh coffee.
"You've checked your watch five times. Go. I've got this."
"I don't mind staying..."
"Go, Faith. And stop worrying so much. You're twenty-two. Live a little."
I don't say it, but living is expensive, risky and messy. I prefer plans, not chaos.
Still, I take the coffee, shoulder my bag, and head for Morrison Hall.
The quad is a sea of chatter and motion. Students shuffle between classes, half-asleep or over-caffeinated. I keep my head down, my earbuds in. Invisible Faith. Right on schedule.
Until I hear it.
"He's even hotter than the photos," one girl gushes.
"I heard he speaks, like, four languages," another says.
"Isaac Stan is literally royalty," a third sighs.
I roll my eyes. Isaac Stan, son of the university president, back from wherever he's been hiding for two years. Gossip gold. But I've got important things to worry about, not some prep-school playboy with daddy's last name.
Morrison Hall comes into view. I glance at my watch. 8:47. Perfect. I quicken my pace.
And then — it happens.
My coffee sloshes over the rim just as someone barrels around the corner. We collide. Hard.
The cup tips.
"Oh..."
The heat hits me first, then the sting. My books hit the floor.
And when I look up, it's into a pair of ice-blue eyes and the most condescending smirk I've ever seen.
"Watch where you're going," he says, his voice smooth and dismissive.
I'm sitting in a puddle of coffee, my favorite sweater ruined, textbooks scattered like casualties. And this gorgeous jerk is looking at me like I'm something unpleasant on his shoe.
"Excuse me?" I manage, my voice too soft, too late. He steps over my books and walks away like I'm invisible, like I always feared I was.
As I scramble to collect my scattered life, one thought echoes in my caffeine-deprived brain:
So much for order.
Chaos wears a smirk... and smells like overpriced cologne.