Chapter 1:Lines and Interruptions
1005 Words
I liked mornings before the world woke up.
There was something about the campus at seven a.m.—quiet, barely touched by sunlight, all sharp shadows and golden edges—that felt like the only honest version of it. Before the crowds, before the performances, before the noise. It gave me space to think. To breathe.
I sat alone on the stone bench outside the architecture hall, sketchpad balanced on my knees, pen poised above the page. The building across from me was older, limestone faded from decades of rain, ivy creeping up one corner like a secret. I was trying to capture the tension in its symmetry—how one side was perfectly mirrored until you saw the tiniest imperfection in the corner window.
That’s what I loved about architecture: it was designed, but never perfect. There was always some c***k in the surface. Some story hidden in the flaws.
“Do you ever sleep?”
Her voice broke the stillness like a dropped pebble.
I looked up. There she was—Celine Navarro, wearing oversized sunglasses despite the morning haze, her bag slung across her shoulder like it weighed nothing. Her hair was braided this time, pulled to one side in a loose twist, and her lips held the kind of smirk I was starting to associate with irritation.
“You’re up early,” I muttered.
“So are you,” she said, flopping onto the bench beside me uninvited. “Though I guess this tracks. You’re probably one of those routine people. Eggs at seven, sketches by eight, emotional repression by noon.”
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
“Tragic.”
I sighed and went back to my drawing.
She leaned over, watching me. “What is it with you and straight lines?”
I didn’t answer.
“I mean, look at this. Everything’s so... tense. Like it’s afraid to move.”
“It’s intentional,” I said. “Structure tells a story.”
“Sure,” she said, unconvinced. “But maybe the story needs a beat drop.”
I glanced at her. “This is why they partnered us, isn’t it? They thought opposites would be productive.”
“Or they wanted to watch us suffer.”
The corner of my mouth twitched. Not a smile. Almost.
Celine stretched her arms above her head and yawned dramatically. “Anyway, I thought we could actually meet today. You know, like a meeting-meeting? Project planning and all that? I booked a room in the library—study room B7. Noon. You coming?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Nope.”
She stood up, already satisfied, and tossed a paper-wrapped pastry onto my sketchpad.
“Eat something. You’re cranky when you’re starving.”
“I’m not—”
But she was already walking away, earbuds in, humming a tune I didn’t recognize.
—
By the time I got to the library, the study room was already claimed by sound. I paused outside the glass door, watching her through the pane.
Celine sat cross-legged on the table, laptop open, notes scattered like a storm had passed through. She was singing softly to herself—something jazzy, smooth, probably her own arrangement. Her pen tapped a rhythm on her thigh. The light hit her profile in this strange, golden way. It was infuriating how she seemed to belong wherever she went.
I knocked once before pushing the door open.
“You’re late,” she said without looking up.
“It’s 11:58.”
“Which makes you two minutes late in artistic time.”
I set my sketchpad on the table and slid into the seat across from her.
“So,” she said, finally looking at me. “Let’s talk about the exhibit.”
“Fine. I was thinking we could build a walk-through space that uses sound and lighting to tell a story—layered panels, maybe semi-transparent partitions. You handle the media components and I’ll—”
She held up a hand. “Wait. That’s your pitch?”
“It’s practical. It’s efficient. It meets all the criteria.”
“It’s boring.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You want to do something unhinged, don’t you?”
“Exactly. I want people to feel something. Not just walk through a structure and say ‘Oh, neat!’ I want them to leave haunted.”
“Haunted?”
“Emotionally.”
I blinked. “That’s not a requirement.”
“It should be.”
She pulled out her notebook and flipped it open to a chaotic spread of doodles, notes, and lyrics. At the center: SYNESTHESIA OF MEMORY written in glitter pen.
“This,” she said, tapping the page, “is our concept. Each room represents a memory. My music guides the mood. Your design controls the atmosphere. We hit all five senses. It’s art. It’s architecture. It’s unforgettable.”
It was ridiculous. And ambitious. And messy.
But part of me felt the idea click. Not because it was logical. Because it made me feel something I didn’t have words for yet.
“I’ll sketch something,” I said.
Celine’s eyes lit up. “That’s a yes.”
“It’s a maybe.”
“Same thing.”
She grinned like she’d won something.
—
Over the next hour, we argued over everything—color palettes, narrative arcs, soundscapes, emotional beats. She wanted vibrant chaos. I wanted clean harmony. But somewhere in between, we found overlap. A shape we could both agree on.
We worked until the sunlight shifted and the library lights buzzed above us. Until my pencil dulled to a stub. Until she stopped singing.
When I looked up, I realized she was watching me.
“What?” I asked.
She shrugged. “You get this look when you’re focused. Like you’re somewhere else. It’s... kind of cool.”
I looked away.
She didn’t say anything else. Just packed up her things and said, “Same time tomorrow?”
I nodded.
And for once, I didn’t mind the interruption.
- Writer
