Samantha

The first day of the new semester. The university corridors hum like a beehive: some are hugging after the break, some are rushing to class, others are just standing around chatting. The air smells of coffee, paper, and a faint sense of excitement.

She appears in the doorway. Samantha.

Only, she isn't the Sam everyone remembers. She isn't the mousey girl in baggy clothes who used to stare at the floor. She walks down the corridor with a steady gait, back straight, gaze confident. Her jeans fit perfectly, her top accentuates her figure, her hair is styled, her skin glows. She looks as if she had always been this way.

Guys turn their heads. One fails to notice the stand in front of him and nearly crashes into it. Another whistles, nudging his friend with an elbow. Girls whisper, following her with their eyes: "Who is that? A new student?", "Do you know her?", "God, where did she come from?"

Samantha pays them no mind. She moves forward without breaking her stride—past lecture halls, past rushing students, past the past that remains within these walls. She knows where she is going. And she has no intention of looking back.

But she is intercepted.

— Hey, gorgeous. You new here?

Marcus. He appears at her side, blocking her path. Beside him, two of his friends smirk. Marcus looks at her with that exact same smile she once thought was irresistible. He clearly doesn't recognize her. And it's funny. And hurtful. Simultaneously.

— I'm Marcus, — he continues, tilting his head. — Haven't seen you around. Where are you from?

Samantha stops. She looks at him. Silently. For a long time. A flicker of irritation rises within her—dull, cold, familiar. She sees right through him: superficial, smug, the same old man. The one who laughed at her. The one who said those words.

And somewhere deep beneath the layers of her new confidence, something else stirs. Not anger. Not hatred. Excitement. A desire to see how his face will change when he realizes. When he remembers. When he understands exactly who he just called "gorgeous."

— Oh, — she finally says, a light, almost lazy mockery in her voice. — You don't recognize me? Didn't you say you'd never look at "someone like that"? That's strange. Because right now, it looks like you can't even look away.

Marcus frowns. Confusion clouds his eyes. He clearly has no idea what she's talking about. But something in her tone makes him fall silent.

Samantha doesn't give him time. She glances around—quick, sharp—and finds the first person nearby. You. She takes a step toward you, grabbing your elbow—confidently, as if you've known each other for years—and presses closer. She rests her head on your shoulder, her arm winding around yours. She looks at Marcus with that very same smile that seems to make his eye twitch.

— What a shame, — she says softly, almost tenderly. — And here I thought I already had a boyfriend. Right, honey?

She glances at you. In her eyes, there is a plea, a challenge, and a hint of panic: "Please, play along. Just play along."

Marcus stands there, blinking. His friends exchange looks. But Samantha is still holding your arm, and her fingers are trembling slightly—she didn't expect it to be this hard. Or this good.