The Stranger With a Pen
1013 Words
It’s weird how silence in a new place feels louder than noise.
Everything at Pacific Heights was unfamiliar the smells, the way people walked like they belonged here, the chill of the early morning air that made me miss Atlanta’s humidity.
I hadn’t heard from Joy in almost two days.
She didn’t answer my texts.
Didn’t pick up my calls.
Didn’t even send a “good morning” snap.
Maybe she was busy settling into her new campus, but still… she always used to check in. Even when she was annoyed with me.
I kept telling myself not to overthink it. I was here to study. Not stress over a girl 2,000 miles away.
But my heart didn’t listen.
My first lecture was English Composition. Classic freshman course. Everyone looked like they were either trying too hard or not at all.
I sat near the window, opened my laptop, and tried to ignore the tightness in my chest.
Then the girl from the library walked in.
The dream girl.
She wore a gray oversized hoodie, dark jeans, and had that messy, soft look like she’d just rolled out of a poem. Hair in a loose puff, glasses low on her nose, a pen behind her ear. Same notebook in her hand.
And somehow, without trying, she sat right beside me.
My heart thumped once. Then again, harder.
She didn’t look at me right away. Just scribbled something in her notebook, lips pressed together like she was holding in a thought she couldn’t say out loud.
I cleared my throat.
She glanced over.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hi,” she replied, her voice soft but not shy.
“You’re… in this class too?”
She gave a tiny smile. “Looks like it.”
“Martins,” I said, offering a hand.
She hesitated, then shook it. “Savannah.”
Savannah.
The name felt like wind through trees. Too pretty for me to handle casually.
“You always write before class?” I asked.
She closed the notebook. “When I have something stuck in my head.”
“What is it this time?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, teasing. “You always ask this many questions?”
I chuckled. “Only when I’m nervous.”
“Why are you nervous?”
“I just met the girl from my dreams.”
She blinked. Just once. Then looked away, smiling like she didn’t believe me but maybe kind of liked hearing it.
I didn’t mean to flirt. I really didn’t.
But something about her made it hard not to.
The professor walked in. We were assigned writing partners for the first unit. Everyone groaned.
“Since you’re seated together, that makes you a team,” the professor said, pointing at me and Savannah.
Of course.
I peeked at her. She was still writing in her notebook, and for some reason, I wanted to read every word.
After class, she said, “Library at five?”
“For the writing project?”
She nodded.
“Sure,” I said. “Should I bring snacks?”
She actually laughed a soft, real laugh.
“Not unless you want me to judge your taste.”
“Oh, I can handle judgment.”
“We’ll see,” she said, walking off.
That night, we met in the far end of the library, tucked between shelves that smelled like old paper and opportunity.
Savannah had already laid out her notebook, laptop, highlighters, and two books she checked out.
“You came prepared,” I said.
“You came late,” she replied without looking up.
“Touché.”
I sat across from her and opened my journal the one Joy gave me. I felt a pang in my chest. The silence between me and Joy had now stretched into a third day.
Savannah looked up. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lied.
She tilted her head, studying me.
“Actually… no,” I admitted. “My girlfriend hasn’t called me since I got here.”
Savannah’s face softened. “You’re in a long-distance thing?”
“Yeah. We made promises. We were so sure we’d make it.”
“Me too,” she said quietly.
I looked at her. “You have someone back home?”
She nodded slowly. “Had. I guess I still do. We don’t talk like we used to. It’s like… space eats everything.”
I swallowed. “Yeah.”
We stared at each other for a beat too long.
Then she pulled her gaze away and opened a new Word doc. “Let’s start the assignment.”
But the air between us had shifted. Grown heavier. Or maybe thinner.
I kept sneaking glances at her when she wasn’t looking. Her handwriting was neat, small. Her earrings were tiny moons. Her lips moved when she read silently.
And at one point, when we both reached for the same pen, our fingers touched.
She didn’t pull back.
Neither did I.
Not at first.
We worked for hours. Laughed a few times. She made fun of my playlist. I defended R&B with passion. She mocked my taste in metaphors. I told her she looked like one.
She blushed at that. Then changed the subject.
It was past 10PM when we packed up.
She walked me out to the quad.
“Thanks for the snacks,” she said, holding up the Sour Patch bag I’d brought.
“Told you I had taste.”
“I didn’t say good taste,” she teased.
We stood there awkwardly.
And for a moment, I thought maybe she’d hug me.
Instead, she said, “Good night, Martins.”
“Good night, Savannah.”
She turned to leave.
I watched her go, heart pounding, the weight of everything suddenly too loud in my ears.
I pulled out my phone. Still no text from Joy.
I typed:
“Are we okay?”
I stared at the screen.
Didn’t hit send.
Just stood there in the dark.
Feeling something I couldn’t name.
And knowing…
Whatever it was,
it wasn’t going away.
- Writer
