Routine

By the third week, the campus had found its rhythm.

Or maybe…

I had finally started finding mine.

Monday mornings meant rushing to English Literature before the professor locked the classroom door.

Tuesdays meant pretending the coffee from the student center wasn’t awful.

Wednesdays meant spending far too much time in the library because it was quieter than my dorm.

Somehow, without realizing it, I had stopped checking the campus map.

It felt like a small victory.

⸻

“You’re smiling.”

I looked up from my breakfast.

Hannah was staring at me from across the table.

“I am?”

“A little.”

“I think it’s because I didn’t get lost today.”

She laughed.

“The bar is incredibly low.”

“It is.”

“But it’s progress.”

She raised her cup.

“To progress.”

I lifted my orange juice.

“To progress.”

⸻

After breakfast, I headed toward my literature class.

The morning air was cool, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass.

Students hurried past me with headphones on, coffee cups in hand, backpacks slung over one shoulder.

Westbridge was always moving.

No matter how early it was.

As I rounded the corner near the athletics building, a whistle pierced the air.

I glanced over instinctively.

The basketball team was practicing outside.

Coach Hayes stood near the court with a clipboard tucked beneath one arm.

He wasn’t yelling.

He barely raised his voice at all.

Yet every player seemed to hear him.

One athlete missed a pass.

Coach Hayes blew the whistle once.

The court fell silent.

“Again.”

That was all he said.

No lecture.

No anger.

Just one word.

The team reset immediately.

There was something oddly impressive about that.

Not because he was intimidating.

Because he’d earned their attention.

I watched for another second before continuing toward class.

It wasn’t any of my business.

⸻

That afternoon, Professor Carter assigned the class our first major research paper.

A collective groan echoed through the room.

“Ten pages?” someone whispered dramatically.

Professor Carter smiled.

“You’ll survive.”

I wasn’t so sure.

⸻

By the time I reached the library, nearly every table was occupied.

Midterms weren’t even close, yet somehow everyone had decided today was the perfect day to study.

I wandered between the shelves until I found a small table tucked beside one of the windows.

Perfect.

I spread my books across the table and got to work.

Or at least…

I tried.

After twenty minutes, I had managed to write exactly one sentence.

One.

I sighed, rubbing my forehead.

“You’ve been staring at that page for a while.”

I looked up.

The librarian smiled kindly.

“I think the page is winning.”

I laughed.

“It definitely is.”

“Sometimes a walk helps.”

Maybe she was right.

⸻

I wandered through the stacks without any destination.

Rows upon rows of books stretched toward the ceiling.

It smelled like old paper and polished wood.

Quiet.

Peaceful.

Home, in a strange sort of way.

As I rounded another shelf, I nearly walked straight into someone.

“Oh!”

I stepped back quickly.

“I’m sorry.”

“No harm done.”

I looked up.

Coach Hayes.

He held three books under one arm, looking just as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

For a brief second, neither of us spoke.

Then he glanced toward the books scattered in my arms.

“Research?”

“Trying to.”

His eyes shifted to the titles.

“Professor Carter?”

I blinked.

“How did you know?”

“The expression.”

“What expression?”

“The one that says, ‘I’m questioning every decision that led me here.’”

I couldn’t help laughing.

“I didn’t realize it was that obvious.”

“It is during paper season.”

A tiny pause settled between us.

Not awkward.

Just… ordinary.

He adjusted the books in his arm.

“Good luck, Miss Bennett.”

“You too.”

The words slipped out before I thought about them.

He looked down at the books he was carrying.

“I’ll need it.”

For the first time since I’d met him…

I saw him smile.

It wasn’t big.

Barely noticeable, really.

Gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

Then he nodded politely and continued down the aisle.

I watched him disappear between the shelves before looking back at my own books.

It was a strange thought.

Professors didn’t stop being people when class ended.

Somehow…

I’d never really considered that before.

⸻

That evening, I finally wrote the first page of my paper.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was a start.

Maybe that was what college was teaching me.

Not how to have everything figured out.

But how to keep going even when I didn’t.

Outside my dorm window, the campus lights flickered on one by one.

Westbridge was beginning to feel familiar.

Not because everything had changed.

Because I had.

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