The rich aroma of coffee laced with the tingling sweetness of pastries greets Neva the moment she steps into the Bakery café.
But the breezy smile on her lips falls away as she steals a
glance at the mysterious man trailing behind her.
She lowers herself into her usual spot by the window before placing her handbag on the seat beside her.
No one is here, not a customer, not an employee, except her and the man seated across from her.
Ignoring him, she turns her gaze toward the window.
Yet he only cradles his face in his hands, a quiet smile playing on his lips as he watches her.
She tries to focus on the quaint, cottage-style façade of the boutique across from the bakery café, its white, bluish-purple pastel hues blending seamlessly with the serene charm of Vernellia.
Quiet footsteps echo across the room, drawing her gaze towards the young man approaching their table.
He probably knows her as a regular at the bakery café by now, for she is familiar with the waiter in the green apron, the name tag bearing Bournville Bakery & Café fastened around his waist.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, ma'am," the waiter says with a polite smile.
"It's alright," she replies, returning a smile.
"What shall I get you both?"
His pen hovers over the open pages of the pocketbook, prepared to take orders.
"I'll have the crepes with chocolate and strawberry fillings, please," she says.
"And a cup of coffee as well."
The waiter nods, jotting down the order before turning his attention to the mysterious man. "And what can I get you, sir?"
The waiter is only met with silence, awkwardness lingering in the stiff air.
She bites the inside of her lip, never growing accustomed to his strange, effortless behaviour.
Like now, his gaze still lingers on her, as if the rest of the world has faded away.
As if he sees straight into her soul, intent on consuming her whole with some kind of spell.
"He asked you for your order." She tries to make her voice firm,
but it somehow comes out softer than she intends.
He leans back, slowly lifting his gaze to the waiter.
A bored yet dangerous expression settles over his face, making the waiter nearly flinch.
"Have you had breakfast?" she asks gently.
He shakes his head, the corners of his lips tugging into a faint smile.
She turns back to the waiter, who remains standing there, silently observing them.
"He'll have the same as me," she says before glancing back at the mysterious man. "Are you okay with that?"
He only nods, appearing sweet and boyish with his deepening smile, while her heart melts like chocolate ice cream beneath the warmth of daylight.
"I'll have that out for you in a moment," says the waiter before turning to leave.
She picks up the menu but doesn't really look at it, holding it high enough to cover her face.
For a moment, she thinks he might leave her alone, before he says, "You're not being fair to me, Angel."
She purses her lips. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean," he says. "One cannot
live without light. You can't expect me to be okay in the dark when you've hidden yourself from me."
Warmth creeps into her cheeks, but she remains silent, afraid she might give herself away to him.
A chuckle escapes him when she makes no move to reply.
"What are you studying at the university?" he asks.
"A bachelor's degree in English literature," she replies, then wonders why she answered at all.
"I see," he trails off. "So, you're a romantic who loves poems and fiction?"
She can practically hear the grin in his words.
"Marvelous," he says. "I'm in luck, because I can recite a few verses myself."
Now, she doesn't hold back the smile threatening to bloom across her lips.
"Can you?" she asks, finally lowering the menu.
His grin widens, his face practically glowing.
"Your eternal light shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fairness you own," he recites, his voice bordering on a gentle dreaminess.
"Nor shall death brag you wander in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time you'll grow."
Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare. But that's a bit weird, a poetry coming from him.
It doesn't suit him at all, especially that kind.
"So long as men can breathe or eyes can see," he continues.
"So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."
"It's not light, it's summer," she corrects. "And you've modernized the poem."
He shrugs. "Can't I make a little alteration of my own?"
"I don't know," she replies, when the chime of the bell announces a customer's arrival.
A hunched old man, whom she has come to know as Emmanuel, a regular here, greets the cashier, whose presence she only now notices.
"I remember it from my school," he says.
"And since my future lover happens to be fond of literature, I suppose it's time I return to it."
"Who says I'm going to be your lover?" she retorts.
He laughs, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "Do you have a favourite poem, Angel?"
"I do," she replies, her fingers curling against her lap as she wonders what's taking so long for their order to arrive, even with only three customers in the café.
"May I have the pleasure of knowing?" he asks.
Gosh. Him and his sweet-talking. Just as she thinks she can barely take it anymore, the waiter arrives with their order, placing before them plates of delicious-looking strawberry and chocolate crêpes, along with two mugs of steaming-hot coffee.
Before she begins with her breakfast, she says grace, as always, and also asks her Father to grant her greater emotional strength.
He doesn't seem to have touched his food yet, either.
"Don't you want to eat?" she asks, reaching for her fork and knife.
"You're a Christian?" He doesn't seem surprised.
"I am," she replies before working her knife through the crêpe.
"Beautiful," he says. "Me too."
Her hands pause, and she glances up at him, only to find him lifting his mug of coffee for a sip.
If he's telling the truth, she might be in real danger of letting her guard down.
And as much as she doesn't want to think about what it would mean to have a fellow believer in Christ pursuing her, if he's not playing
with her, that is, she finds herself, for the first time, wondering what her Father wishes her to do.
After that, she can barely enjoy her breakfast,
while he seems to be having the best breakfast of his life, eating with such exquisite grace.
It's nine minutes past eleven when she steps out of the bakery café,
having paid the bill and left a generous tip.
Of course, the mysterious man walks beside her, set on escorting her all the way to her university.
"You haven't replied to me, Angel," he says.
"About what?" She notices a few youngsters around her age,
backpacks slung over their shoulders, walking ahead of them, probably on their way to Vernellia University.
"About your favourite poem."
"I have many."
"You can't have more favourites to tell me than the seven minutes it'll take us to reach the university."
"I don't want to."
"Would you rather go straight to dating, then? I'm fine with that.
We have a whole lifetime to get to know each other."
Without answering, she quickens her pace, leaving him a few steps behind, while he gives a soft laugh.
The red-brick walls of Vernellia University rise imposingly even among the
autumn-ripened trees, and her throat tightens with anxiety as students buzz around her through the open iron gates and across the campus.
It's the first time she's ever been among so many people, especially young people her own
age, and she doesn't really know what to expect, except that she intends to enjoy academia, even if alone, and earn the outstanding grades.
Before she walks in through the gates, she turns to her mysterious man.
"You only said... until the university."
He tilts his head, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "Right."
He withdraws a hand from his jacket and, to her surprise, she doesn't pull away as he lightly brushes the crown of her head.
An unexpected warmth flutters in her chest.
"See you later, Neva..." He lingers over her name as he takes a step back, his gaze never leaving hers.
With a faint smile, he turns and walks away.
She remains where she is,
watching until his familiar silhouette disappears into the sea of strangers drifting along the campus road.
Her fingers drift to the spot where the warmth of his touch still lingers. "Did he mess up my hair?"
She turns and walks on, only half-aware of her surroundings, as an unfamiliar hollowness blooms within her chest.
Thankfully, she had already memorized the campus from her admission
visits with her aunt and uncle almost a month before.
And that's how she easily finds her way to the lecture hall where her course is about to begin.
More students stream into the half-empty lecture hall, and she makes her
way up the steps toward the towering rows of blue desks and seats rising in a gentle arc.
There must be about five hundred seats in total. That's a whole lot of competition.
She settles into a seat in the middle row, which is almost empty save for a girl with glasses at the far end.
The girl is engrossed in her notes, her books arranged neatly across the desk while a digital pen moves swiftly over her tablet.
As Neva takes out her own book, unwilling to let herself fall behind because she
knows the academic demands of this university will be high, she wonders if she truly belongs here.
She has been homeschooled all her life, making this new experience feel equally thrilling and frightening.
Rising murmurs and footsteps swell around her as more students stream into the lecture hall.
She knows academics are only a part of life. They exist to deepen understanding and offer guidance for the future.
And life is neither a race nor a competition. Yet she still has to do her best and use the gifts the Lord has given her to serve Him faithfully.
She's here to learn, to live, to seek purpose, and to tend her own little garden in some quiet corner of this world.
Her fingertips wander over the pages before her.
Life shouldn't be so frightening, so burdened by judgment, or simply endured.
It should be lived in pursuit of the small, sacred slices of warmth and happiness.
She'll linger by. She'll make sure of it. And she already loves English literature so much.
A presence stirs beside her, and she lifts her gaze to a beautiful pair of amber eyes.
The young woman extends a hand toward her.
"Hi! I'm Emma!" she says with a bright smile that instantly lightens the air around them.
"Hi." Neva slips her hand into hers. "I'm Neva."
"Can I ask you something?" She slides the bag from her shoulder as she settles into the seat beside her.
Neva nods. "Sure."
"Do you like Rhett?" Her gaze narrows ever so slightly, studying Neva's face of the faintest reaction.
"Huh?" Neva blinks, confused. Then, hesitantly, she murmurs, "Oh... yeah, I guess I like red."
Emma's eyes brighten as she leans in. "Can I ask you another?"
Neva nods. "Ask away."
"Is he your boyfriend?" Emma studies her expression closely.
"What?" Neva frowns, bewildered as she tries to pull at the strings of Emma's words.
When did people start dating colours?
"Girl~"
She folds her arms over her chest, disappointment written all over her face. "The guy you were with at the campus gates? That ring a bell?"
A flustered jolt shoots through Neva's nerves. "His name is red? As in the colour red?"
"Wait, so you don't even know his name?" Surprise flickers in Emma's eyes.
Heat rises to Neva's cheeks.
Emma shakes her head with a soft chuckle. "By the way, no. His name is Rhett." She raises a finger, spelling it out carefully. "R–H–E–T–T."
Then she tilts her head,
a flicker of confusion crossing her face. "I guess?"
"At least that's what my boyfriend calls him," she adds, a grin spreading across her lips.
Neva nods slowly, brightening at the unexpected but pleasing revelation.
It's strange that they'd shared an entire breakfast and a recital of poems, yet somehow, his name had never even come up.
Still unable to contain the curiosity stirring in her chest, she asks, "How do you know him?"
Emma looks up at her, a pen caught between her lips as she pulls out her books.
She lowers it, her tone lifting with a lovely ease.
"He owns a car maintenance workshop. I visit my boyfriend there quite often, he works
for Rhett, so I've run into him a few times."
Then her brows arch mischievously, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Isn't he a looker? So many girls gush over him, and I've had plenty ask me if I could get his number, but I'm not a matchmaker.
And I've never seen him with anyone except you."
Neva just watches her,
a blend of strange, comforting feelings stirring in her chest, though she quickly pushes it away.
"Imagine my surprise when I saw you with him," Emma says, her grin ever lingering.
"Are you falling for him, girl?" She leans back and flashes her two thumbs up.
"You have my full support! Like really, you two look like a match made in heaven!"
Neva shakes her head, holding up a hand. "I just wanted to know his name."
A knowing smirk curves Emma's lips.
"That's how every love story begins, girl."
Whatever.
Neva can't help the smile blooming across her lips.
She already likes this pretty, chestnut-haired girl.
Maybe university won't be as depressing as she'd dreaded.
But... his name... really is Rhett.