An Ordinary Day

WORK STUDY – PART II

I didn’t dream about him.

I thought I would.

Thought I’d fall asleep to the ghost of his hands on my skin, his breath in my ear, the soft weight of him pressed against me.

But I didn’t dream.

I just… slept.

Hard and long, like my body finally let go of whatever it had been holding onto. Like something in me knew it was safe to stop bracing.

The sun was already bleeding through the blinds when I finally woke up. My phone had four texts—two from a group chat I always muted, one from Lauren reminding me about our project, and one from a number I didn’t have saved.

But I knew who it was.

LUCA

skip class with me today

we should explore. or get lost. or both.

I’ll bring snacks

I stared at the screen for a full minute before I responded.

Not because I didn’t know what to say.

But because I wanted to pretend the world had slowed down again—like last night. Like maybe I could read that message a few more times and find the part where it made sense.

I didn’t.

And it didn’t.

So I got up.

Brushed my teeth.

Showered.

Stared at my closet like the right hoodie might solve something.

Every part of me wanted to respond, and every part of me also wanted to not be that guy. The guy who rearranged his day for someone he barely knew. The guy who skipped a class he’d shown up to hungover and feverish because a cute boy asked.

I wasn’t that guy.

Was I?

By the time I was dressed, I’d drafted four different responses and deleted them all.

Too casual. Too interested. Too not me.

Then another message pinged:

LUCA

i promise not to make you touch any more dusty books

unless that’s, like, your thing

I groaned. Actually groaned.

Collapsed face-down on my bed and let my phone drop beside me.

He was impossible.

And funny.

And—maybe worst of all—sincere.

I sat back up. Took a breath. Tried to feel like myself again.

And typed:

Today’s not a good day. I’m booked solid.

I hit send before I could regret it.

Then I grabbed my bag, zipped up my hoodie, and swung the door open like I was doing something virtuous—like turning down a spontaneous almost-date made me a better version of myself.

Only… he was standing there.

Luca.

Leaning against the doorframe, coffee in one hand, backpack slung over one shoulder, looking unfairly good for someone who probably hadn’t gone to sleep before 2 a.m.

I froze.

And for some ridiculous, godforsaken reason, Vanessa Carlton popped into my head.

He’s got a look in his eye like he’s got a plan,

and the plan is you, and it’s happening now.

Not the lyric, not exactly—but close enough to make me feel like I was in a music video I didn’t remember auditioning for.

He raised the coffee cup like a peace offering. “Morning.”

I blinked. “Were you—did you know I was gonna—?”

“Nope,” he said easily. “I was taking a risk. Worst case, you weren’t here. Second worst, you were here and slammed the door in my face. Best case…” He shrugged. “You cancel everything and come with me.”

“I just texted you.”

“I know,” he said, and stepped forward.

There was a moment—a pause—where all the air in the hallway recalibrated. He was close enough for me to smell cinnamon again. Close enough for the coffee cup to brush my chest if either of us moved wrong.

“I’m not here to pressure you,” he said. “I just thought… maybe you’d want to keep being a little reckless.”

I looked at him—really looked—and thought about last night.

About the quiet.

About how good it felt to stop thinking.

And for a second…

I didn’t feel like a person who had places to be.

I felt like a person standing on the edge of something he’d been afraid to name.

Luca looked like the kind of boy who showed up at your door with a plan you weren’t ready for and a smile that made you consider it anyway.

I leaned against the frame, hand still on the knob. “I really do have class.”

“Sure,” he said, sipping his coffee like he didn’t believe me. “But is it the kind of class where your soul withers if you miss one day? Or the kind where you sit in the back pretending to take notes while doomscrolling?”

“I don’t doomscroll,” I muttered.

“You don’t not,” he said, and grinned like he’d won something.

I looked at him.

At the backpack. The smirk. The coffee he brought me without asking how I take it.

“I’m not a class-skipper,” I said, quieter now. Like I was reminding myself.

He tilted his head, and something in his smile shifted—softer. “Maybe you’re just waiting for the right reason.”

Then he stepped forward.

Not into me. Not across the room. Just… in. One foot past the door, just far enough that anyone walking down the hall wouldn’t see what happened next.

He leaned in.

And kissed me.

It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t a dare.

It was a quiet little yes.

To last night.

To this morning.

To the space between us that still felt like heat and gravity.

And it undid me—not in some wild, explosive way. Just enough.

Just enough to make me stop holding up all the walls I’d spent years reinforcing.

Then he pulled back.

Stepped into the threshold again.

And looked at me with that maddening, magnetic ease.

“This offer’s not gonna stay on the table forever,” he said, backing into the hallway. “Last call’s in five.”

And then he walked away.

And I stood there—door open, heart stupid, mouth still tingling—thinking about that Vanessa Carlton lyric again.

The one I always get wrong.

The one that feels more like a prophecy now.

He’s got a look in his eye like he’s got a deal.

And he’s standing there, and you’re standing still, and it’s now or never.

So I said it out loud. Just once.

Soft.

To no one but myself.

“Fuck it.”

And I grabbed my bag.

I didn’t ask where we were going.

I didn’t ask because I think I already knew: it wasn’t about a destination. It was about saying yes. About choosing the unexpected on purpose. About letting someone like Luca—someone who moved through the world like it owed him wonder—reroute my perfectly color-coded day.

We started with coffee. Real coffee. Not campus coffee.

A place off a side street I’d never noticed, where the guy behind the counter knew Luca’s order before he opened his mouth.

He got mine wrong. Twice.

Said it was part of the ritual.

“Bad coffee makes for better stories.”

Then we walked.

Nowhere in particular.

Past the edge of campus. Into a neighborhood with uneven sidewalks and too many porch cats. Luca made up stories about the houses—who lived there, what drama they were hiding, which ones were secretly haunted.

I didn’t say much.

I didn’t need to.

⸻

Luca: “You always overthink this much?”

Me: “I don’t overthink. I consider outcomes.”

Luca: “Same thing. Just with more spreadsheets.”

⸻

He found a swing set behind a church and dared me to sit on it.

I said no.

Then I did anyway.

My knees practically touched the ground, and the chain squeaked every time I leaned back.

We didn’t talk about last night.

Not directly.

But there were glances. The kind you feel in your ribs.

⸻

We ate sandwiches from a bodega that smelled like incense and motor oil.

He made fun of my order. I pretended not to care.

He stole a bite anyway.

⸻

Luca: “You know what I like about you?”

Me: “That I’m punctual and emotionally repressed?”

Luca: “You keep showing up. Even when you’re scared.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

So I took another bite of my sandwich and stared at the sidewalk like it might offer instructions.

⸻

At one point, we sat on a stone wall outside a used bookstore with a faded OPEN sign and talked about tattoos we’d never get.

He said he’d get a matchstick on his ribcage.

Said it meant he liked small things that could start big fires.

I laughed.

But my chest ached a little.

The day passed in shades I didn’t expect—burnt orange leaves, scuffed sneakers, the accidental poetry of ordinary things.

We didn’t do anything revolutionary.

But I felt different.

Lighter.

Unmoored.

Like maybe the person I thought I was… had more versions than I gave him credit for.

By late afternoon, we were lying on the grass in a park I’d walked past a hundred times but never stepped into.

Luca tossed pebbles into the fountain like he was trying to skip stones on still water.

He missed every time.

Didn’t care.

I watched the clouds move.

Tried not to think about what came after this.

Tried not to think about the group chat blowing up with questions or the unread emails in my inbox or the quiz I’d definitely have to make up tomorrow.

And failed.

Me: “This feels like a dream I’m gonna wake up from and find out I missed a midterm.”

Luca: “You didn’t. I checked.”

Me: “You checked?”

He smirked. “Okay, I guessed. But you believed me for a second, didn’t you?”

He asked me why I didn’t date.

I pretended not to hear him the first time.

When he asked again, quieter, I still didn’t give him a real answer.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just not great at it.”

He didn’t press. Just nodded like he understood—like maybe he wasn’t either.

That silence settled between us—not awkward, not heavy. Just real.

The sun started to dip.

He walked me back to my building like we hadn’t met in a library—like this was something we’d been doing for years.

Outside the stairwell, he stopped.

And this time… he looked nervous.

Luca: “Today was good, right?”

Me: “Yeah.”

He nodded. “Not too much?”

I shook my head, even though part of me wasn’t sure what too much meant anymore.

He shifted his weight. “I meant what I said earlier. You show up. Even when it’s weird. Even when you’d rather hide.”

I laughed under my breath. “Maybe I just don’t know how to say no to you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s not exactly comforting.”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” I said. “It’s just… true.”

We stood there for a beat too long.

The kind of moment where something usually happens.

Where someone usually kisses someone else again, or blurts out a feeling, or ruins it.

But we didn’t.

We just stood.

Breathing. Waiting.

Then he said, “Goodnight, Micah,” like it meant something.

And walked away.

I didn’t go inside right away.

I watched him turn the corner, disappear out of sight.

And for the first time in a very long time, I didn’t want to rewind or revise the day.

I just wanted to see what came next.

TO BE CONTINUED…