The scent of fresh notebooks, ground coffee, and ocean wind greeted Isabelle Hart as she stepped onto the campus of Crestmore College.

She tightened her grip on the sketchpad clutched to her chest, her suitcase wobbling behind her like a reluctant pet. A girl with big eyes and a heart even bigger, Bela had never thought she’d end up here—on a scholarship, surrounded by historic stone buildings and people who wore their surnames like crowns.

“New girl?” a calm voice asked from her side.

She turned. A tall boy with sleepy hazel eyes and a quiet expression stood beneath a maple tree, holding a clipboard.

“Uh—yeah,” she replied, a little breathless.

“I’m Jackson. Dorm assistant. You’re in Room 12B, right?”

Bela blinked. “Yeah. Wow. Psychic?”

He smiled just slightly. “Nah, just good at remembering names.” He took her suitcase before she could argue and began walking beside her.

“Thanks,” she said, glancing up at him. “I’m Bela. Short for Isabelle.”

“I know,” he replied.

She didn’t know why, but that made her heart skip a little.

---

The hallway of her dorm buzzed with laughter and music. Bela couldn’t help but shrink a little into herself—she wasn’t shy, just… wary of big personalities.

That’s when he appeared.

At the far end of the corridor, a tall boy—messy hair, designer clothes, phone glued to his ear—strode straight toward them without looking.

“Han Jin!” someone called behind him.

He didn’t hear—or didn’t care.

Bela stepped back too late. He brushed past her, knocking her sketchpad out of her hands. Papers flew.

“Watch it,” he muttered, not even glancing down as he walked past.

“Wow,” Bela mumbled, scrambling to collect her things.

Jackson crouched beside her. “That was Han Jin. You’ll get used to him.”

“Used to what, arrogance?”

Jackson smirked. “Exactly.”

---

Later that day, Bela wandered into the art studio—her safe space.

Sunlight poured in from the wide windows, splashing across easels, canvases, and clay figures mid-formation. She exhaled. This was why she came here. To create, to start over.

She sat at a table by the window and flipped open her sketchpad. Doodles. Dreams. Her heart on paper.

Taped to the underside of the table was a small folded note.

She hesitated… then opened it.

> “If you're sitting here, you’re probably carrying something heavy.

Let art carry it for you.

—A”

She stared at the paper, heart strangely moved.

Who was A?

---

That evening, Bela attended the welcome ceremony on the lawn. Fairy lights strung between trees, music playing, the smell of grilled food in the air.

And then there was him.

Standing on a small stage, mic in hand, was a golden-haired boy with a grin that could light up the sky. “Hi, I’m Kevin,” he said, addressing the crowd. “If you’re here for football, parties, or just free food—welcome. If you’re here to avoid all of that… also welcome. We’ve got books too.”

Everyone laughed.

Bela found herself smiling despite herself.

His eyes scanned the crowd—and locked onto hers for just a moment.

He winked.

Her heart stuttered.

---

Later that night, in her quiet room lit only by a lamp, Bela scribbled in her journal:

> Day One:

I met a quiet boy, a golden boy, a rude boy, and a mystery artist.

I came here to find myself.

So why do I feel like they already see me?

She closed the journal, hugged her pillow, and stared at the ceiling.

She had no idea that the four hearts she’d just brushed past would soon change her life forever.

The second day at Crestmore started with a bagel, cold coffee, and a deep sense of being watched.

Not in a creepy way. Just... noticed.

Bela sat at the far corner of the cafeteria, headphones in, sketching the trees outside. She liked to observe more than participate. But the problem with observation was that you couldn’t always control who observed you back.

From the football table, Kevin Blake was watching her with a lopsided grin.

From the library corner, Jackson was reading but sneaking glances over the top of his book.

From the courtyard just outside, Han Jin leaned against a wall, scrolling through his phone but pausing every time her laugh broke the quiet.

And somewhere in the art building? The mysterious “A” was leaving another note.

---

After class, Bela ran into Kevin—literally.

Her sketchpad flew again. “Oh my God, I should just duct-tape this thing to me.”

Kevin crouched down, laughing as he helped pick up her pages. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this. You’ll think I’m stalking you.”

She looked up, and he winked again.

“Thanks,” she said, suddenly aware of how close they were. “Kevin, right?”

“Yup. And you’re Bela. New girl. Artist. Terrible with sketchpad security.”

She laughed.

They ended up walking toward the courtyard together. He told her about football, how the team had expectations, how sometimes he just wanted to be seen as more than a jersey number.

“I know what that’s like,” Bela said. “Being seen, but not really seen.”

They shared a look. A quiet understanding.

---

Later that evening, Bela found Jackson waiting by the art building steps with two cups of hot cocoa.

“I figured you’d be here,” he said simply.

She sat beside him on the steps. “How’d you know?”

He shrugged. “You’re a quiet kind of person. When the world gets loud, quiet people go to their safe places.”

She looked at him differently then—he wasn’t just reserved. He listened.

“Thanks, Jackson.”

He didn’t say anything. He just handed her the cocoa and looked out into the night with her.

---

The next day, Bela spotted Han Jin again—arguing with someone near the fountain.

His words were sharp. His tone louder than necessary.

She didn’t want to get involved—but when the guy shoved Han Jin, Bela instinctively stepped between them.

“Hey!” she snapped. “Take your toxic masculinity somewhere else.”

Han Jin blinked at her.

So did the guy.

After an awkward silence, the other boy left.

Han Jin looked at her with something unreadable. “You’re not scared of anything, are you?”

“I’m scared of plenty,” Bela replied. “But bullies? Not on the list.”

For a moment, his smirk faded, and something real flickered in his eyes.

---

That night, back in the art studio, she found a fresh note beneath her stool:

> “You were brave today.

Sometimes bravery is quiet.

Sometimes it throws a punch.

You were both.”

She smiled, folding the note gently and placing it in the back pocket of her journal.

---

Journal Entry: Day Two

> Kevin makes me laugh. Jackson makes me feel understood.

Han Jin… confuses me.

And A makes me feel seen.

What is happening to me?

Bela lay in bed, staring at the ceiling again. Only this time, her chest fluttered—not from nerves…

But from something that felt a little like falling.

---

Bela had always thought love would feel like lightning — sudden, overwhelming, electric.

But with Kevin… it was something gentler. Like golden sunlight slipping through blinds, warm and quiet.

It started with a study session.

---

“I’m warning you,” Bela said, eyes wide. “I suck at algebra.”

Kevin smiled as he dropped his backpack on the grass. “Perfect. I suck at metaphors. Teach me to write, I’ll teach you to math.”

They were sitting beneath the old sycamore tree in the east quad. Students passed by, music played in the distance, but it felt like they were in a world of two.

“Okay, deal,” she said, crossing her legs. “But fair warning — I talk to numbers like they’re people.”

Kevin grinned. “And I talk to people like they’re numbers. So maybe we’re both messed up.”

They laughed. And for once, Bela forgot to be cautious.

---

After twenty minutes of math (and Kevin pretending not to already know the answers), they ended up sprawled on the grass, watching the clouds.

“Why did you come to Crestmore?” Bela asked, tracing a cloud with her finger.

“Full ride,” he said. “Football scholarship. I grew up in a small town — this was the dream.”

“Is it still the dream?” she asked.

He was quiet for a moment.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes I think people only like me because I’m good at something.”

She turned her head to look at him.

“I get that,” she said softly. “People only like me when I’m quiet and polite and nice. The second I say what I feel, I’m ‘too much.’”

Kevin looked at her like he really saw her then.

“You’re not too much,” he said. “You’re just more than most people know how to handle.”

That sentence — that one sentence — wrapped around her like a hug.

---

The next afternoon, she found a note tucked into her sketchpad.

> “For the girl who teaches numbers to feel:

You’re not too much.

You’re just finally meeting someone who can handle it.”

—K

She smiled. Kevin had signed it.

Not A this time. Kevin.

---

A few days later, they went for milkshakes at a local diner off-campus.

He told her about his sister, his late-night runs to clear his head, his fear of never being anything beyond a touchdown highlight.

She told him about her dad, who left when she was ten. Her mom’s struggle. Her art. Her constant search for meaning.

Kevin didn’t interrupt. Didn’t fix. Didn’t judge.

He just listened.

And when she went quiet, overwhelmed by the things she had said aloud for the first time in years, he reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“You’re safe with me,” he said gently.

---

Journal Entry: Day Five

> I thought I’d fall for someone who challenged me.

But maybe love is about who makes you feel safe to just be.

Kevin makes me feel like home.

---

The next day, she found a tiny daisy tucked into her locker.

No note. No signature.

But she didn’t need one.

She already knew.

---