A group of freshmen scatter past me, their laughter echoing off the brick buildings as someone's playlist bleeds through a cheap Bluetooth speaker. The air smells like rain on concrete, cheap coffee, and the faint hint of weed drifting from the usual spot near the humanities building.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket.

Then again.

And again.

I don't need to check it. I already know who it is. The pattern is as familiar as my own heartbeat at this point—spam calls, desperate texts, voicemails that start angry and end broken.

A group of girls passes by, and one of them—blonde, ponytail swinging—nudges her friend and whispers something I can't hear but definitely feel. The glance over the shoulder. The pity disguised as curiosity.

Somewhere behind me, I hear his voice.

Loud. Aggressive. Directed at someone else, because it's always directed at someone else until it's not.

And there he is.

Eren Jaeger. Six foot four of bad decisions and worse attitude. Black hoodie, ripped jeans,那种 walked-off-a-crime-scene energy that somehow makes half the campus swoon. His eyes scan the quad like he's hunting for something specific.

His eyes land on me.

And they stop.