The Theory of Us

Chapter Two: Arthemis

*Alarm Rings*

I groaned as my alarm rang beside me

'Great, another day of suffering'

Today is supposed to be my free day, then my professor on that one specific minor subject that I hated decided he wanted to do a lecture today, since he doesn't want to be "left behind" lessons because he will be away AGAIN for next week's class

'That stupid a*s just wanted to go vacay 4 weeks before the break'

Continuous complaints inside my head that I didn't even realize that I was already done with my routine

As I walked down the street, from my apartment to school, my phone suddenly rang

I picked my phone up and read the caller ID

'Keilo'

My not so little brother anymore, calling me. I didn't hesitate and picked it up quickly, hoping that no bad news would interrupt my morning

"Hello?"

"Art, when will you come home again?"

"I told you, in 4 weeks before Winter Break. Why? Did something happen?"

"No, everything is fine, It's just that…"

As I talked to my brother over the phone, I was in front of my university, I quickly bid goodbye to him and hung up the phone.

Then, I had this weird feeling again

'Huh? What's happening? Why do I feel nervous all of a sudden?'

I told myself the feeling would pass.

Feelings always did—especially the inconvenient ones. You ignored them long enough, redirected your attention, buried them under deadlines and responsibilities, and eventually they dulled into something harmless. That has always worked for me.

So there was no reason my chest should’ve felt tight as I walked away from the library.

I didn’t look back. That would’ve meant admitting there was something to look back at. Zionel Marcus Castillio was just another student—one I happened to keep encountering in increasingly absurd ways. That didn’t make him important. That didn’t make him anything.

Still, the conversation replayed itself in my head as I crossed campus. The way his shoulders had visibly relaxed when I said I believed him. The way the tension between us had eased without either of us trying.

That unsettled me.

In my lecture, I wrote the date, underlined it, and stared at the page until the professor’s voice blurred into background noise. Normally, lectures grounded me. They reminded me I had direction.

Today, my thoughts refused to cooperate.

The next morning, I adjusted my routine.

Not drastically—I wasn’t testing fate, no matter how dramatic that sounded. I just left earlier, took a longer route, skipped my usual coffee stop. Small changes. Controlled ones.

If coincidence was real, nothing would happen.

Halfway across campus, someone bumped into my shoulder.

“Sorry—!”

We spoke at the same time.

I turned.

Zionel stood there, frozen, like he’d just walked into a glitch.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then he let out a short breath. “Okay. This is officially ridiculous.”

“I took a different route,” I said flatly.

“So did I,” he replied, pointing behind him. “I never go this way.”

I stared at him, then briefly up at the sky. “If someone’s messing with us, I’d like them to stop.”

He smiled. Not smug. Just amused. “Agreed.”

We stood there longer than necessary before falling into step together, mostly because separating felt pointless. The walk was easy—too easy. Classes, schedules, shared complaints about professors. Nothing personal. Nothing dangerous.

When we reached a fork in the path, we slowed.

“This is me,” I said.

“Same for me—other direction,” he replied.

A pause settled between us. Not awkward. Just… present.

“I’ll see you around,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. “Confident.”

“Based on evidence,” he answered.

I shook my head as I walked away.

I hated that — I was smiling.

Over the next few days, Zionel became familiar.

Not close. Not constant. Just… recurring.

A glance across the library. A brief conversation outside a building. Once, the same café again—separate tables, shared looks that said this is still weird without either of us moving to change it.

We never planned to meet. That mattered.

Conversations stayed light. Observational. He never pushed, never lingered when I excused myself. If I ended a conversation early, he let it end.

That restraint was unexpected.

And uncomfortable.

I started noticing things I hadn’t meant to. The way he listened without interrupting. The way he remembered small details I mentioned casually. The way he stayed calm, even when he was clearly frustrated.

It would’ve been easier if he annoyed me.

But he didn’t.

One night, long past when I should’ve been asleep, my phone buzzed.

Zionel:

Do you ever feel like the campus is smaller than it should be?

I stared at the screen. This was harmless. A normal question.

Still, I paused before replying.

Me:

It’s statistically not.

Three dots appeared.

Zionel:

That didn’t answer it.

I sighed softly.

Me:

It feels smaller when you start noticing the same people.

A pause.

Zionel:

Yeah. That makes sense.

The conversation stayed measured. Observations, not confessions. Thoughts about college, about how strange it felt to be expected to plan your life before you’d figured out who you were.

When I checked the time, nearly an hour had passed.

That bothered me.

I ended the conversation politely and set my phone face down, heart steady but alert—like it had learned something new and hadn’t decided what to do with it yet.

I pulled back after that.

Not, obviously. Just enough. Slower replies. Earlier exits. Reminding myself that familiarity didn’t equal importance.

Zionel didn’t comment.

He didn’t chase.

That should’ve reassured me.

Instead, it made me think.

We ran into each other again in the library.

I was at my usual table when he sat across from me without a word, waiting until I looked up.

“You’re quieter,” he said.

“So are you.”

He nodded. “Fair.”

A moment passed.

“Are we doing something wrong?” he asked—not accusing. Just curious.

I considered lying.

Then I sighed. “I don’t like not knowing where things are going.”

“Me neither,” he said. “But I don’t think everything needs direction right away.”

I studied him. “You’re okay with undefined?”

“I’m okay with observing,” he replied. “No pressure.”

That answer settled something in me.

“Okay,” I said. “Observing.”

He smiled—not hopeful, not victorious. Just present.

That night, lying awake, I thought about invisible strings.

Not destiny. Not soulmates. Just repetition. Familiarity. The quiet way patterns formed before you noticed them.

I still didn’t believe in fate.

But I was beginning to understand how something could grow slowly, almost invisibly—until one day you realized it had been there the whole time.

And that realization felt far more dangerous than coincidence ever had.