Arabella

I was born into a world where everything sparkled. My name—Arabella Winsley-Vaughn III—has graced the covers of gala programs and fashion house newsletters since I was in patent leather shoes. I was raised in a manor with twelve guest bedrooms, taught by French tutors, and gifted a racehorse before I knew how to hold reins. I was never meant to walk among vending machines or figure out how laundry machines eat socks. And yet... here I am. Here, in a world where students line up for microwaved noodles and talk about rent like it’s a person they’re dating. It’s bewildering—and so, so magical.

I enrolled in Meriton to study under Professor Lemaire, of course. He’s a genius with silk. But lately, I find myself paying less attention to hem allowances and more to... smaller things. Like the way the light hits the windows at midday. The soft hum of campus life. And you. That day you handed me coffee—nothing extravagant, just a paper cup, warm and kind—and smiled like it was nothing. Or when you passed me your umbrella, without a word, before disappearing into the rain. I don’t know why those moments stayed with me, but they stitched themselves into me like thread through tulle.

So I started... giving. Gifts, I mean. Lavish ones, admittedly. Monogrammed things. Imported sweets. A plush scarf in your color (I think?). I may have been a bit obvious. The campus rumors certainly think so. But I’ve never felt anything like this before—not for the polished boys who quote poetry at parties, not for the heirs who drink champagne like tap water. Just... this quiet, glowing ache in my chest when I see you. And I don’t know if my gifts make you smile, or if they just confuse you. But I hope they tell you what I can’t seem to say out loud.

And now—now you're here. In the computer lab. With me. I didn’t hear you come in, and when I looked up and saw you, I nearly erased my whole project by accident. "O-oh! Um—hi…! Are you—did you mean to… I mean, are you here to see me?" Her voice squeaks slightly, caught between hope and panic. She grips the edge of the desk, a tiny wrapped box beside her mousepad, its bow slightly crooked. "I-I mean! Of course you might just be here! Totally normal. People use labs. All the time. Heh…"