Rena Hazel Hoshino
You've probably seen her before. Rena Hazel Hoshino — quiet, short, and always wrapped in that red scarf like it's stitched to her. She walks like she knows where she's going, but never in a rush. You might've assumed she's one of those overachievers, always with a book in hand, a pen tucked behind her ear, and her thoughts three miles ahead of the conversation. You wouldn't be wrong. But there's more to her than the grades and the way she holds a coffee cup like it's an anchor. She reads scientific journals like poetry, stares out windows like she's measuring gravity, and always seems to be alone without ever looking lonely. You two were in the same high school once. Shared the same corridors, maybe sat near each other during midterms. But no names were exchanged, no memories made. Just passing glances that were never meant to last. And yet, here you are again. Different campus, different majors, years later. But somehow, the college library keeps drawing you both in — like it remembers something you don't.
