Beautiful Angella Vega.

Angella’s POV They say college is the time to find yourself — to make memories, take risks, and fall hopelessly in love. Yeah, no. That wasn't really my story. The memories? Nah. I’m Angella Maria Lois Vega,a third-year Psychology student at Eldridge University. I’m five-foot-four, slightly allergic to sunlight, and almost entirely antisocial. Since my freshman year, I’ve preferred books over boys, journals over parties, and coffee over conversations. Well… all except one boy. Okay,I’m actually into one. And that “one” happens to be someone no one in their right mind would touch with a ten-foot pole of emotions. Especially not someone like me. I sigh as I zip up the last side of my purple suitcase, the weight of my entire life neatly folded into two bags and a tote stuffed with snacks and anxiety. My room is still messy from the night before — half-packed books, sketchpads filled with emotion wheel diagrams, and a mug with the words "Caffeine & Coping" on the side. In the mirror across from me, I catch a glimpse of myself. Dark brown, shoulder-length hair frames my face, still slightly damp from my rushed morning shower. My skin is clear, save for the faint mark near my left jaw — the one I always cover with concealer. My eyes are my most noticeable feature, mismatched like the universe couldn’t decide: one hazel, the other deep brown. It freaked out kids in middle school, but now it’s just… me. “Oh,” I sighed, still staring at my image in the mirror. “I think I look perfectly... okay.“ I hurried to my suitcase on the bed, zipping it shut. I adjusted the reading glasses on my nose and tugged down the edge of my oversized hoodie. Slim frame. Curvy in that annoying, “your waist is too small for your hips” way. "Angie!" My dad's voice booms from downstairs. "Let's go! The car's probably waiting! I can see a red…" his voice turning low but still audible. "What model of car is that?" I chuckled lightly, grabbed my phone, and glanced out the window. And yep — there it is. A red Audi A4 parked right in front of the house. Its paint glistened under the sun like it had never met a speck of dust in its life. I smirk as the driver leans against the car with black sunglasses and an overconfident stance. Jordan Flint. Of course. And in the passenger seat, applying lip gloss like we weren’t on a time schedule, is Tiffany Woods — her white-blonde curls bouncing with every flick of her wrist. I roll my eyes fondly and grab my bags. “Angella Maria Lois…” my father called once again. “Coming!” I yelled, dragging my suitcase toward the stairs. In the living room, my mom already has a Ziploc bag filled with vitamin C tablets and her infamous homemade ginger chews. “For your voice,” she insists every semester. “In case you need to give a speech or call for help.” “Thanks, Mom.” I lean in to hug her, the warmth of her arms a small comfort. My dad tousles my hair. “Do your best, okay? No boys.” I laugh. “I never do." He raises a brow. “That’s what worries me.” “Or maybe I should. I'm getting old,” I teased. Outside, Jordan has already popped the trunk. “Hey, little one. How are we doing?“ I greeted, his face in complete annoyance. “And good morning to you, husky,” he replies, grabbing my suitcase. “Why,you…" “What? You're offended? That's how I feel when you call me that." His face lit with triumph. We lift the suitcase with a grunt and drop it in, Tiffany leaning over from the passenger seat. “Girl, you took forever. We’re trying to make an entrance, not a funeral procession.” “Relax. I had to say goodbye to my sanity,” I say, slipping into the back seat. “You left that in high school,” Jordan quips, pulling onto the road as I wave goodbye to my parents. “What do you know about my high school?“ I tease, hitting their arm as we drive. --- The ride is filled with chaotic music, bickering over playlists, and Jordan nearly running a red light. And then — like every year — we drive up to the familiar archway of stone and steel. ELDRIDGE UNIVERSITY. The bold letters glint beneath the sunlight like they were carved by ambition itself. I lean out the window and inhale slowly. The air smells like fall leaves, money, and a hint of academic stress. We drive past the gates into the courtyard, and the usual scene welcomes us — flashy cars, expensive perfume trails, and students dressed like they walked off a runway rather than into a lecture hall. “Home sweet elite,” Tiffany mutters. I step out, suitcase in hand, as the wind catches my hair and a small smile tugs at my lips. Despite everything, I do love it here. “ANGELLLAAA!” someone yells from across the lot — probably one of the girls from the psychology department. I turn immediately, my glasses almost losing balance on my nose as I wave absentmindedly. I adjust my glasses to see who that was, but she was gone — like she vanished into thin air. “You good?“ Jordan asks. I nod, carrying my suitcase. I start walking toward the Great Hall with my friends behind me. The three musketeers ready to conquer this new semester. As we reach the entrance of the Great Hall, the crowd stills. A low hum of murmurs, followed by sharp gasps and whispers. I turn — and there it is. A white Rolls-Royce Phantom glides into the lot like it owns the world. People practically lean over their bags just to get a better look. It pulls up slowly, silently, like the car knew it didn’t need to announce its arrival. I already know who it is. I mean, we all do. Who doesn't? The door swings open. Out steps a guy dressed casually — but somehow making joggers look like Versace. White T-shirt, white sneakers, black joggers. A large gym bag slung over his shoulder. Slightly long brown hair that falls into his eyes until he pushes it back with a single swipe. Hazel eyes that gleam under the sun like gold dipped in shadow. He’s tall — too tall to be that attractive. And the moment he steps out, the crowd erupts. “MR. PRESIDENT!” “HE’S BACK!“ Girls giggle. Guys fist-bump. Phones come out. Flashes go off. He smiled, waving his hands to the crowd. Not the arrogant, smug kind of smile you’d expect from someone like him — no. This one is subtle. Charismatic. Lazy even. Like he’s used to the world watching and no longer cares. Beside me, Tiffany sighs dramatically. “Can he just… stop existing so perfectly?” Jordan shrugs. “He’s so overrated.” Tiffany and I both glance at Jordan, giving him a bombastic side eye, and he looks away. “Sorry,” he says, raising his hands in the air. “Better,” Tiffany mutters, cheering lightly for the guy who just drove in. I stare quietly. My heartbeat...not so quiet. I don’t say a word. I just watch him. Because that's what I've always done. And even though I know I should look away, I don’t.