pansy / artem wing - ch. 01
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— masterpost here.
You didn’t mean to chase after ghosts.
You had chosen Stellis University for its reputation. For its city lights. For the clean, quiet promise of a future that belonged to you. That’s what you told yourself, anyway.
But in truth?
You had already enrolled before you noticed his name on the brochure.
It was a glossy pamphlet tucked into the admissions packet. You had flipped through it absentmindedly, your fingers still smelling faintly of printer ink and bubble wrap. And there it was—Artem Wing—printed neatly under the student testimonials for the College of Law.
You stared at it for too long. Long enough that the corners of the brochure began to curl beneath your grip. You didn’t think he was a year older than you.
It wasn’t supposed to matter. Not anymore.
You folded it away in a drawer and told yourself not to look again.
Move-in day passed like a blur.
There were people to smile at, suitcases to unpack, sheets that didn’t fit your bed properly. The walls of your dormitory were too white. Too clean. Like a space waiting to be lived in, but not yet yours.
You hadn’t spoken to anyone longer than five minutes.
You had been avoiding mirrors.
And yet, in the still moments when your roommate wasn’t around, when the sunlight pooled against the floor in warm, buttery streaks, you found yourself thinking of that afternoon.
Of the conversation you never truly left behind.
Do you believe law can ever be fair?
Your first day of classes arrives with the scent of coffee and overripe pavement. You walk alone.
The university is louder than you remember. There are bicycles weaving through walkways, pamphlets being handed out by student councils in matching shirts, voices echoing over sun-warmed stone. But your world moves slowly, like someone has pulled the air through molasses.
The law building is a polished thing—modern, glassy, with sharp corners softened only by the vines that crawl along the east wall. You hesitate at the entrance. You’re not sure why.
Inside, the air is cold, and the sound of shoes against marble echoes far too cleanly. Your first lecture is scheduled in Room 204. You find it easily, sit near the back, and take out your notebook with hands steadier than you feel. You glance around once. Not expecting anything. Just habit, you tell yourself.
And then—there he is.
Two rows ahead. Off to the side. Back straight. Hands folded neatly over the desk. Listening to the professor with that same sharp, quiet attention you remember.
Artem Wing.
He hasn’t changed. Or maybe he has, but the shape of him, the quiet that follows, the stillness, feels the same. Like a memory you accidentally packed into your suitcase and brought with you.
He hasn’t seen you yet.
Something in your chest has already unraveled.
You tell yourself to look away. That it’s been long enough. That the moment passed months ago, back in that seminar hall with its stiff chairs and silver name tags and too-bright lights. You tell yourself you’re different now. That it didn’t mean anything. That you only ever read his story from a distance—never choosing it for yourself—and that knowing the ending should have made you immune.
But it hasn’t. Not really.
You glance down, pretending to write something. Your notes don’t make sense. The ink stutters. Your grip is too tight on your pen. Every sound in the room feels like it’s underwater. You’re painfully aware of how quiet he is. Of how, somehow, even surrounded by people, he still manages to be alone.
When he finally turns, it’s not dramatic. There’s no moment of cinematic gravity, no slow-motion eye contact. He just looks over his shoulder—and finds you.
Your breath catches. His eyes pause on yours for just a second too long. Then he turns away again. You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until your lungs ache.
Class ends before you’re ready. Pages shuffle, chairs scrape back, the hall fills with the quiet thunder of students moving on. You move slower than most, fumbling for your bag, pretending to fix the strap, pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re waiting for.
But you see his shadow before you see him.
He’s standing there in the aisle, just beside your desk, his expression unreadable. You freeze, your fingers still tangled in the zipper of your bag.
“Hey.”
It’s quiet. You almost think you imagined it. But when you look up, it’s him.
You try to smile, but your throat is dry. “Hi.”
“I wasn’t sure it was you,” he says. His voice is the same. Measured. Calm. A little quieter than you remember.
“So you do remember me.”
His lips twitch slightly. “The seminar. Last spring. You asked me what I was doing alone.”
You let out a soft, uneven laugh. “I’m surprised you remembered.”
“I don’t tend to forget conversations like that.”
That quiet weight settles between you again. You feel like you should say something else, something clever or disarming, but nothing comes. He glances away, then back at you.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says.
You offer a smile, smaller this time. “Neither did I.”
