When We Finally Met

Wrong Timing, Right Person

The first semester slipped away like sand through Aren’s fingers.

He had everything planned: register early, get into the English program, make friends, start fresh. But somehow — thanks to one missed email and a stubbornly full class roster — he was left standing on the sidelines, watching as the semester rolled on without him.

He spent those months drifting around campus like a ghost.

The library became his second home, the cafeteria his battlefield, and the empty hallways his runway for late-night walks when he couldn’t bear the loneliness anymore.

Everyone else was forming memories — first group projects, rushed lunch dates between classes, casual friendships stitched together by proximity and time.

Meanwhile, Aren clutched his untouched notebooks, pretending it didn’t bother him.

But it did.

God, it did.

When the second semester finally came, Aren promised himself:

This time will be different.

He showed up at campus early, backpack slung over one shoulder, heart pounding with the fragile hope of a new beginning.

The air buzzed with energy. Students loitered around the entrance, laughing and exchanging stories. The bright morning sun glinted off the windows, as if the universe itself was giving him a nod of approval.

This was it.

His second chance.

The classroom was already filling up when Aren stepped inside.

Rows of polished wooden desks gleamed under the soft light. The low hum of conversations floated around him like background music. Some people were already grouped together, chatting comfortably.

Aren’s stomach twisted.

Should I sit in the middle? Near the back? Will someone sit next to me?

He opted for a seat along the side wall — close enough not to look isolated, but safe enough to escape if the anxiety got too loud.

He dropped into the chair with a quiet sigh, pulling out a pen and a blank notebook, trying not to look like he was scanning the room for potential friends.

A few minutes later, the seat next to him scraped back.

Someone dropped their backpack onto the floor with a soft thud and slid into the chair beside him.

Aren glanced sideways.

Just a casual glance.

And immediately forgot how to breathe.

The guy had slightly messy black hair, the kind that looked like he either just woke up or styled it that way on purpose — either way, it worked. He wore a plain white T-shirt under an oversized denim jacket, sleeves casually rolled up to reveal strong forearms.

There was something about him — an effortless calm, like he belonged exactly where he was, no matter what.

The guy noticed Aren staring and smiled — a slow, easy smile that reached his dark eyes.

"Hey," he said, voice warm and a little rough, like he'd just cleared his throat.

Aren blinked, caught off-guard by the sheer friendliness of it.

"Uh—hey," Aren managed, his voice cracking embarrassingly.

The guy chuckled, low and genuine, like Aren had just made his day better without even trying.

"I'm Veasna," he offered, reaching out a hand.

"Aren," Aren said, shaking it, hoping Veasna couldn't feel the sweat on his palms.

The handshake was brief but solid.

Not too firm, not limp — just... right.

Aren’s heart did a weird flip.

He told himself it was just nerves.

It was definitely just nerves.

(Right?)

The professor began the class, launching into the syllabus, but Aren caught almost none of it.

His brain was too busy making notes about Veasna instead:

Pen doodling in the notebook margins? Check.

Absentminded bouncing of one leg? Check.

Smiling like the world wasn't as heavy as it felt sometimes? Big check.

He noticed, too, how Veasna always tilted his head when listening, eyebrows scrunched in concentration.

How he had the softest little scar above his left eyebrow, half-hidden by his hair.

How — every once in a while — he would glance at Aren out of the corner of his eye, like he was making sure Aren was still there.

As the weeks passed, Aren found himself noticing more.

Veasna had a habit of bringing weird snacks to class — dried mango strips, seaweed chips, strange Japanese KitKats flavored like matcha or peach.

Without fail, he always slid some onto Aren's desk without saying a word, pretending he wasn’t doing anything special.

One day, it was a sour green apple candy.

Another, a small packet of mini Oreos.

Sometimes Aren would catch Veasna watching him, waiting for a reaction — and when Aren gave a shy thumbs-up or a whispered “Thanks,” Veasna’s whole face would light up like he'd just won a prize.

By mid-semester, Aren realized two things:

One: He laughed more when Veasna was around.

Two: He liked laughing more when Veasna was around.

Veasna cracked dumb jokes about their professors, imitated the dramatic way students sprinted for coffee between classes, even started a mock "sleeping competition" whenever lectures dragged past two hours.

("Whoever stays awake longer wins a drink," Veasna whispered once, eyes sparkling.

Spoiler: Aren lost. But Veasna bought him a Coke anyway.)

Still, despite all the shared smiles and casual touches — the nudge of shoulders, the bump of knees under tables — they never had a real conversation outside of class.

No texts.

No coffee dates.

No real alone time.

Aren told himself it was fine.

He told himself not to read too much into it.

Friends. It’s just friends.

That’s what normal friends did, right?

But sometimes — when Veasna laughed at something Aren said like it was the best thing he'd heard all day —

Aren wondered if maybe he wasn't the only one feeling something more.

One Thursday afternoon, after a mind-numbing two-hour lecture on past participles, Veasna leaned over and nudged Aren with his elbow.

"Hey. Wanna grab iced coffee? I know a place that doesn’t taste like dishwater."

Aren blinked at him, startled.