IF GOODBYES WERE THAT SIMPLE

​Westcoast College possessed two distinct identities. On paper, it was one of the most prestigious institutions in Chicago-a place of sprawling ivy-covered brick, tall arched windows, and history - so old it is practically oozed from the cobblestone pathways. ​In reality, it was a gilded playground for the sons and daughters of the ridiculously wealthy. ​I, on the other hand, belonged to neither category. I wasn't rich, I wasn't famous, and I certainly didn't treat higher education like a fashion show. My world was small, quiet, and deliberate. While other students spent their weekends at lavish downtown penthouses or underground club parties, I was perfectly content spending my Friday nights organizing my lecture notes with color-coded highlighters, drinking chamomile tea, and listening to the soft murmur of rain against my bedroom window. ​I was nineteen, but my heart operated with a strange, childlike simplicity. I had never held a boy's hand. I had never been kissed under the warm glow of streetlights. Romance, to me, was a concept preserved entirely within the crisp pages of classical literature-something beautiful to observe from a safe distance, but far too chaotic to experience firsthand. ​"Maribel! Wait up!" ​I paused on the sweeping stone steps leading up to the grand library, clutching my heavy leather-bound binder tightly against my chest. I turned to see Chloe, my roommate and self-appointed guide through the treacherous waters of college social life, sprinting up the stairs. Her bright blonde hair was flying, and her breath hit the crisp autumn air in small white puffs. ​"You walk way too fast when you're on a mission," Chloe panted, catching up to me and adjusting her shoulder bag. ​"The library gets crowded after two o'clock," I reasoned softly, pushing my round glasses up the bridge of my nose. "If we don't grab a spot near the south windows now, we'll end up near the noisy computer lab." ​"Right, because silence is a matter of life and death for Maribel Johnson," Chloe teased, nudging my shoulder affectionately as we pushed through the heavy oak doors of the library. ​The moment we stepped inside, the chaotic hum of the campus faded into a sacred, hushed calm. The smell of old paper, polished wood, and vanilla tea hung thick in the air. ​"Did you see the parking lot today, by the way?" Chloe whispered, her voice immediately dropping into her signature gossip-mode as we navigated the long aisles between towering bookshelves. ​"I saw that someone parked a ridiculously bright red sports car diagonally across two handicap spots," I murmured, my brows furrowing slightly in disapproval. "Which wasn't very thoughtful. Someone who actually needed the space might have had to park all the way across the quad." ​Chloe stopped dead in her tracks, staring at me with a mixture of disbelief and amusement. "Maribel. Sweetie. That 'ridiculously bright red sports car' is a limited-edition Ferrari. And it belongs to Noah Williams." ​I blinked, processing the name. It felt vaguely familiar, like a melody played in the background of conversations I usually ignored. "The football player?" ​"The heir," Chloe corrected dramatically, leaning in closer. "Williams Enterprises? As in, his family literally owns half the real estate in downtown Chicago? He doesn't just go to Westcoast, Maribel; his grandfather's name is etched into the brass plaque on the administration building. Plus, he's... well, he's Noah. He breaks hearts for sport. Half the girls on this campus are desperately trying to get his attention, and the other half are still crying over the fact that they got it." ​I looked at her innocently, genuinely puzzled by the appeal. "He sounds like a very stressful person to be around." ​Chloe let out a smothered laugh, shaking her head as we finally reached our favorite wooden study table near the floor-to-ceiling arched windows. "You are literally too pure for this world, Maribel. I swear, you have the soul of a toddler." ​"I just prefer peace," I said simply, pulling out my seat. ​We settled in, unpacking our books. Within fifteen minutes, Chloe was thoroughly absorbed in scrolling through her phone under the table while I lost myself completely in the rhythm of my studies. I loved the feeling of ink on paper, the structured precision of notes, and the quiet comfort of being invisible. ​The afternoon sun streamed through the glass, painting long, golden blocks of light across the scarred oak table. Everything was serene-until the heavy wooden doors at the end of the aisle swung open, shattering the quiet sanctity of the room with low, rumbled laughter. ​I didn't mean to look up. I really didn't. But the sudden shift in the library's atmosphere was impossible to ignore. ​Two guys strolled down the central aisle, completely indifferent to the stern looks from the head librarian. But my gaze was instantly drawn to the one leading the way. ​He was effortlessly tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a black leather jacket slung casually over one shoulder despite the indoor heating. His dark hair was artfully messy, clinging to his forehead, and his sharp jawline looked like it had been sculpted from marble. But it wasn't just his appearance-it was the way he moved. He carried an aura of absolute, untouchable authority. It was the distinct, dangerous grace of someone who had never been told 'no' in his entire life. ​Noah Williams. ​My heart gave a sudden, erratic thump against my ribs. A quick, unfamiliar heat flushed my cheeks. Panicking, I dropped my gaze back to my notebook, gripping my pen so tightly my knuckles turned white. Just focus. Don't look. Don't stare. ​"Hey, Williams, check it out," a voice muttered nearby, accompanied by heavy footsteps. "Isn't that the quiet girl from-" ​"Shut up," a deep, smooth voice cut in. It was rich, low, and laced with a lazy sort of dangerous charm. ​Suddenly, a shadow fell directly over my notebook, blocking out the warm golden sunlight. ​I froze. Slowly, hesitantly, I tilted my head up. ​Noah was standing right beside my chair, leaning one large, ringed hand against the edge of my table. Up close, he was overwhelming. He smelled faintly of expensive cologne, rain, and a hint of dark vanilla. His eyes were a striking, storm-cloud gray-sharp, intense, and currently locked entirely onto me. A faint, crooked smirk played at the corner of his lips. ​"You're in my spot," he murmured, his voice smooth as velvet. ​I blinked, my mind momentarily short-circuiting under his intense scrutiny. I looked left, then right, gesturing vaguely to the vast, empty library wing around us. ​"There are... about twenty open tables," I whispered, my voice trembling just a tiny bit despite my best efforts. "And most of them have better lighting." ​Noah's smirk widened, a glint of genuine intrigue flickering in those gray eyes. He pushed off the table slightly, taking a slow step closer until he was standing right beside my chair. He tilted his head, taking in every detail of my face-my wide, startled eyes behind my glasses, the flush spreading down my neck, and the way I was clutching my binder like a shield. ​"Yeah," he whispered, leaning down just enough that his breath brushed against the sensitive shell of my ear. "But I like this one." ​