2. Daphne

Chapter two

Daphne

T he following day, I stand outside Marketing 402. While my major is Music Performance, I’m also minoring in Arts Marketing. It’s a shame Eden isn’t in this class with me.

I take a deep breath and step into the classroom. Cool air envelops me.

Scanning the room, I search for Alexandru. I have a strange sense that he’s here, even though I can’t see him yet. It’s like my intuition is guiding me, calling his name with every breath.

The moment my eyes fall upon the third row, I am certain I have found him. It’s Alex.

He’s lounging back in his chair, the light catching the golden strands of hair that fall carelessly over his piercing brown eyes. There’s a subtle shift in his attire from my memory. No longer wearing black-framed glasses and nerdy tees, he dons a crisp button-down shirt that perfectly accentuates his lean frame. He’s still undeniably attractive but not quite the same. Does he remember, like I do? Is he dying without me like I am without him? Memories flood my mind as I draw closer: the sound of his laughter, the warmth of his gaze behind those glasses he no longer wears. Now, there’s a distance between us, a chasm that didn’t exist before.

Yet I’m pulled to him. Always.

Sauntering to an empty seat to his left, I muster all my courage for the next few moments. They’re possibly the moments that will define our relationship moving forward.

Not knowing if I’m welcome to call him by his nickname, I opt for his full first name. “Hi, Alexandru,” I murmur as I slip into the seat next to him.

He doesn’t respond right away, so I speak a little louder, hoping he isn’t ignoring me. “Hi, Alex.”

Would it be inappropriate to discuss what happened that night? It was exactly midnight when I broke into his second-story window, and once it was all said and done, the only question he had was, “Why are you wet?” At the time, I had literal water dripping from my hair. My clothes were soaked because I hadn’t had time to change before I ran to the Whitmore home. It was like a piece of my soul—the very piece that’s my favorite because it’s the one that contains him—knew he was in trouble. More trouble than what I was in.

He was clueless about the purpose of me crawling through his window that night. I’d rather keep it that way .

In real time, Alexandru turns, and for a moment, our eyes meet. My breath catches, searching for a sign of the connection we once had. But he looks away, leaving me in a silence that stings sharper than any words.

I settle into my seat, contemplating what we once shared. Who is this stranger, dressed in the costume of someone I once knew, someone I—dare I admit?—still long for. Is the boy who dreamed of being a chef, who confided his secret love for culinary arts, truly gone?

As customary for the first day of class, the professor has us introduce ourselves. I don’t listen until it’s Alex’s turn.

“Alexandru Whitmore, but you can call me Alex,” he states flatly, lacking the passion and creativity that once radiated from him. “I’m a business and communications major.” I wonder if the cutthroat world of business snuffed out his flame.

When it’s my turn, Alex’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. It makes me feel unhinged. Once upon a time, I caught a peek into his world. On the outskirts but close enough to touch, at least. Now, it’s all a distant dream. I’m walking aimlessly in a haze, and I’ve just now realized that he hasn’t been dreaming about me as I have been about him.

As class drones on, I have the impression of observing from a distance as an outsider. Then, the professor announces our first project—finding a way to market our hobbies. I glance over at Alex and can’t help but sense a pang of nostalgia. Since I’m sitting next to him, the professor pairs us together.

“Favorite hobbies?” I offer tentatively. When Alex doesn’t answer right away, I panic and blurt out my own. “Playing the harp.” So stupid. He already knows I play the harp.

There is a long pause before he finally responds, “I d-don’t have any h-hobbies.”

“None?” I press gently, remembering the times I played in their mansion while he was in the kitchen, surrounded by spices and laughter. “Not even cooking?”

“S-sorry,” he mutters, diverting his gaze and confusing me with his sudden change of topic.

“Sorry for what?” I ask, genuinely perplexed.

“For being ca-caught off guard. Wasn’t e-expecting to see you ag-again,” he confesses. I see it then, his vulnerability shining through the cracks of his carefully crafted facade. His stuttering tells me he’s nervous, but I am relieved to see that it is not as severe as it once was. There were a few times he couldn’t get a word out.

He looks at me then, deep-brown eyes meeting mine. A flashback hits me: us sitting on his bedroom floor, him with a cookbook in his hands and me listening to him read out the recipes. “I don’t cook anymore,” he says finally, pulling me back to reality .

“Why not?” I push, remembering the joy that used to light up his face whenever he was in the kitchen. It was one of the few times I witnessed him being unabashedly happy.

He shrugs, refusing to meet my gaze. “L-l-lost interest.”

That hits me hard. The boy who found comfort in cooking, who dreamt of opening his own restaurant one day, lost interest? It feels like a lie. His passion for culinary arts was real, almost tangible. How could he just let go? I’m missing something.

“But why?” I begin but stop mid-sentence when I see him flinch.

He takes longer to answer—I assume to collect himself, because when he talks to me again, his stuttering is almost non-existent. “Can we change the topic?” he asks quietly, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

I take a deep breath and nod. I can’t force him to speak about it if he doesn’t want to. But it bothers me, more than it probably should.

The class ends, but the silence between us lingers on. He gets up from his chair and leaves without another word, leaving me to ponder over our conversation.

Is this how it is going to be from now on? Us pretending like we were never something more?

As he walks away, I can’t help but remember the old Alexandru. The boy who occupied half my soul. He was always there when I needed someone the most, and now ... he’s just a stranger wearing Alexandru’s face.

I miss him already.