Chasing Second Chances

Lena Morgan

The campus buzzed with the kind of energy only the beginning of fall semester could bring-overdressed freshmen clutching crumpled maps, upperclassmen pretending they had their lives together, and the occasional skateboarder weaving through crowds with terrifying confidence. The air was crisp, scented with coffee, autumn leaves, and just a hint of academic anxiety.

Lena Morgan clutched her spiral notebook to her chest as she navigated through the sea of students outside Ridley Hall. Her favorite worn- out Converse squeaked against the wet pavement- remnants of the morning's rainstorm still clinging to the ground like an afterthought.

Creative Writing: Storytelling & Structure.

Room 304.

11:00 a.m.

She glanced at her schedule again even though she'd memorized it. She wasn't nervous exactly, but there was something about the first day of a new class that always made her stomach flutter. Maybe it was the possibility- the idea that someone in that room could become a lifelong friend... or inspiration for her next short story.

Her auburn curls frizzed wildly in the humidity, and she tried taming them with a quick run of her fingers. No use. Lena was used to looking like she'd been caught in a wind tunnel. It kind of became her thing.

She reached Room 304 just as the bell chimed from the nearby chapel tower.

The classroom wasn't anything special- pale green walls, rows of desks arranged in a semicircle, and a whiteboard filled with scribbled quotes from famous authors. The smell of old books mixed with coffee was oddly comforting. A few students had already claimed seats, hunched over phones or chatting in hushed tones.

Lena picked a seat toward the middle, neither eager nor trying to disappear. She liked being close enough to the professor to seem interested, but far enough to avoid eye contact when unprepared.

The seat next to her remained empty, until the door creaked open again.

And in walked him.

Adonis Biglia.

Lena didn't know his name- yet- but she definitely knew his type. Tall, lean but broad-shouldered, dark hair that curled just enough to look effortlessly cool, and eyes that were so intense they practically burned holes into the floor as he walked.

He had that look- like he didn't care about being here but would still ace the class. Like he had secrets, stories, and maybe some scars hidden behind that leather jacket. Oh, he wasn't wearing a leather jacket. Just a plain grey hoodie. But still. The vibe was there.

He scanned the room once, didn't smile at anyone, and dropped into the seat right next to her.

Of course.

Lena stiffened slightly, her pen already twirling between her fingers. He didn't look at her, didn't say a word. Just pulled out a black Moleskine notebook and a pencil. Not even a laptop. Pencil. That was either pretentious or poetic. Maybe both.

"Welcome, writers," the professor said, stepping into the room. Professor Arlo had the kind of presence that filled a room without effort. Late forties, black turtleneck, silver-rimmed glasses, and eyes that seemed to see into your soul.

"This class isn't about grammar. It's not about five-paragraph essays. It's about story. Truth. The messy, flawed beauty of fiction that feels real. If you're here for an easy A, leave now."

No one moved.

"Good," he said with a smirk. "Let's start with names. Go around. First name, what you love to write, and the last book that broke your heart."

Lena felt her chest tighten. She hated icebreakers. They always felt like auditions.

The introductions started, moving clockwise around the circle.

When it reached her, she cleared her throat and tried to sound confident.

"Lena. I like writing contemporary stuff-usually romance, but sometimes with darker themes. And the last book that broke my heart was A Little Life." She didn't add that she sobbed for a whole hour after finishing it. That part stayed private.

Professor Arlo nodded thoughtfully. "Excellent choice."

Then it was his turn.

The boy next to her didn't hesitate.

"Adonis," he said, voice low but clear. "I write whatever keeps me awake at night. Last book that got to me was The Bell Jar."

Heads turned. A few eyebrows rose.

Professor Arlo gave him an approving nod. "A classic. Heavy. I like that."

Lena blinked. Adonis. Seriously? That was his actual name? And The Bell Jar? She couldn't decide if it was genuine or a line designed to sound deep. But his voice-damn-was gravelly and calm, like he'd lived three lifetimes and didn't care if you knew it.

The rest of class passed in a blur of syllabus discussion and free-writing exercises. Lena found herself stealing glances at Adonis's notebook. His pencil moved fast, furious. She didn't know what he was writing, but he didn't pause once.

By the time the clock hit noon, her stomach was growling and her fingers were stained with ink. She stood, gathering her things, when Professor Arlo called out.

"Before you leave-pair up. Writing partners. You'll be giving each other feedback all semester. Choose wisely."

Groans echoed across the room. Some people paired immediately, obviously friends. Others hesitated.

Lena turned toward Adonis just as he turned toward her. Their eyes met.

His were a stormy grey up close, almost unnerving in their stillness.

"Want to get this over with?" he asked flatly.

Lena blinked. "Charming. But sure."

They exchanged numbers in silence.

Outside, the campus had warmed under the sun, drying the pavement and lighting up the golden leaves scattered across the lawn. Lena walked slowly, sipping her coffee and trying to decide if her new writing partner was an introverted genius... or just a jerk.

Later that night, Lena curled up on her bed in her tiny off-campus apartment, a steaming mug of tea in one hand and her laptop balanced on her knees.

A text pinged.

Unknown Number:

Adonis here. Send me something you've written. I'll do the same. Keep it honest.

Straight to the point.

Lena chewed her lip. She hesitated. Sending someone your writing was like handing over your diary.

But she'd signed up for this.

Lena:

Sure. This one's called Cherry Smoke. It's a short story. Let me know if it's terrible. Be brutal.

She attached the file and hit send before she could second-guess herself.

Five minutes later, her phone buzzed again.

Adonis:

Read it. Not terrible. Actually kind of good.

Lena:

Wow. High praise.

Adonis:

I liked the ending. The metaphor with the fire escape? That was clever. I wouldn't have written it that way. But that's what makes it work.

She stared at the screen.

No one had ever given her feedback that quickly or that thoughtfully.

Before she could reply, another message came through.

Adonis:

Sending mine now. It's messy. Just... read it and tell me what sucks.

His story arrived as a PDF-Dust & Silence. The title alone gave her goosebumps.

She clicked.

It was dark. Raw. About a boy who lost his sister in a fire, haunted by her laughter in the smoke. The writing was jagged and honest, like a wound that hadn't scabbed yet. She finished it and sat still for a moment.

Lena:

That was... devastating. But beautiful. You write like you're bleeding on the page.

Adonis:

Yeah. That's the point.

She didn't ask if it was true. She didn't need to. And for a brief, silent moment, something shifted between them-two strangers connected by words, both unsure whether they were ready for what that connection could become.

Lena stared at her phone, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Lena:

You okay?

She wasn't sure why she sent it. Maybe because she knew what it felt like to write from a place of pain. Maybe because she wanted to know more. Or maybe it was the way Adonis's words had clung to her, like smoke caught in her hair-unshakable, haunting.

The three dots danced for a few seconds.

Then disappeared.

Then returned.

Adonis:

I'm always okay. Writing just makes it louder sometimes.

Lena frowned. She wasn't sure if that was his way of brushing her off or if it was his version of being honest. Either way, the words lodged themselves somewhere in her chest.

Lena:

I get that. Writing makes the noise clearer for me.

Adonis:

Exactly.

There was a pause, and for the first time since the exchange started, Lena felt... something new settle between them. Not quite friendship. Not quite curiosity. More like recognition.

She pulled her knees up, pressing the warm ceramic of her mug against them. The city lights outside her window blinked lazily, and the hum of distant traffic filled the room like background music to her thoughts.

Then her phone vibrated again.

Adonis:

Want to meet up this weekend? Go over each other's stories in person. Coffee shop or something. Less awkward than texting.

Lena blinked.

He wanted to meet? That was unexpected.

Lena:

Sure. Saturday work for you?

Adonis:

Yeah. There's a place on Elm called Grounded. 10 AM?

Lena:

I'll be there.

She set her phone down, heart skipping a little faster than it should've. It wasn't a date. It was just writing. Feedback. Notes and critiques.

But still-she felt it. That strange, unspoken pull.

She had a feeling Adonis Biglia was going to be far more complicated than she originally thought.

Saturday Morning

The café was one of those cozy places that felt like it belonged in a movie-chalkboard menu, mismatched chairs, walls covered in indie band posters and old typewriters. The smell of espresso and cinnamon wrapped around Lena like a hug the moment she walked in.

She spotted Adonis instantly. He was at the far end, back against the exposed brick wall, already nursing a cup of black coffee. He wore a plain black tee under a denim jacket. Simple. Effortless. That same serious expression painted across his face like it didn't know how to leave.

Lena hesitated, adjusted her tote bag on her shoulder, and walked over.

"Hey," she said, sliding into the chair across from him.

He nodded once. "You want coffee or...?"

She smiled. "Already caffeinated, but thanks."

He pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his notebook. "I marked up your story."

Her eyebrows lifted. "Old school. No Google Docs?"

"I like the paper. You feel the words more," he said simply.

She accepted the sheet and saw neat, tight handwriting in the margins. His comments weren't vague compliments. They were useful. Specific. Honest. Things like "Try showing this emotion through action" or "This paragraph hits harder if you cut the fluff."

She almost laughed.

"You're good at this," she said, glancing up.

He shrugged. "I read a lot. And I've been doing this a while."

She tilted her head. "You mean writing, or... hiding in coffee shops while looking mysterious?"

His lips twitched into a smirk. Just for a second. "Both, maybe."

Lena took out her own notes on Dust & Silence. She'd printed his story, scribbled thoughts all over it, even color-coded some sections like the overachiever she was.

He flipped through it in silence, his eyes skimming her words. Then he nodded.

"This is helpful," he said. "I didn't think anyone would bother."

"Why not?"

"Most people read my stuff and say, 'Wow, that was sad,' and move on."

"Well," she said, "it was sad. But it was also really good."

His gaze flicked up. There was something different in it now. Less guarded. More... real.

They talked for over an hour, dissecting each other's stories, discussing their writing habits, their favorite authors. Lena learned he liked writing late at night, that he never let anyone read his poetry, and that he grew up in a small town near the ocean. She didn't pry about the fire in his story. Not yet. But it lingered there, like smoke behind his words.

In return, she told him about her dream of publishing a novel, how she'd been writing since she was ten, and how her biggest fear was writing something no one connected with.

"You don't have to worry about that," Adonis said. "Your writing's honest. It'll find people."

The compliment made her cheeks flush. Not because of what he said, but how he said it. Like it was fact, not flattery.

Eventually, the waitress dropped off the bill and they lingered in that awkward post-conversation silence where both wanted to stay but didn't know how to say it.

Adonis tapped his fingers against his coffee cup. "Same time next weekend?"

Lena smiled. "Yeah. Same time."

As she walked away, she didn't look back. But she felt his eyes on her the entire time.