3

~Ali~

I stand in the another reception area within the original part of the old, stone building amongst a small cluster of equally tense new students. The nervous energy seems to tighten the air, stringing each molecule impossibly closer together until the tension is almost palpable. A few students are brave enough to start up conversations with the people around them and they settle together in loose, awkward clusters.

The rest resort to rocking on our heels and obsessively checking our empty phone screens, passing a few tight-lipped smiles when eye contact is accidentally initiated. I am not proud that I fall into the latter category of students.

A pair of heels click curtly along the flagstone floor and a woman, probably in her mid-fifties, enters the hallway with a stony face and an elegant posture. A black clipboard is tucked under one arm and a pen is balanced between two bony fingers. She has a deep set of wrinkles etched on her forehead like a roadmap and a jaw length, yellow-blonde bob with her silvery roots starting to show in the artificial light. She tugs on the corner of her precisely pressed black blazer and speaks with a cool, methodical tone.

"Welcome to the University of Barmouth. My name is Mrs Killoran and I am one of the overseers to our academic program here. The founder of the University, Mr Canbury, sends his apologies for being unable to hold this introduction for you today. In his absence I will conducting the tour today and answering any further questions you may have." Her eyes have not blinked once throughout her terse speech, I realise unsettlingly. Without warning, she pivots on her stiletto heels and walks briskly out of the double doors, leaving us to hurry after her.

From the reception we fall outside into the over-cast afternoon, a small breeze rustling the hedges around us. We walk at a speedy pace along the criss-crossing paths that bridge all the buildings together and Mrs Killoran does not seem to concern herself by checking if we are following.

Our first point of interest in the tour is the chapel - a beautiful limestone structure seamlessly carved from what seems to be a single slab of stone. High ceilings and enormous stained glass windows spill shadows of colour over the lawn as the sun cuts through the biblical depictions. The edges of the limestone carvings have softened with age and two heavy oak doors guard the entrance. Mrs Killoran tugs on the coiled, brass handle and the door swings open.

Her speech about the chapel is brief - a quick mention about optional attendance to the Sunday services and a limited insight into its long history. The rest of the tour follows a similar, hasty pattern across the campus. We pass buildings, momentarily stop inside some of the lecture halls and then continue to the library, sports centre, cafe and other notable structures. The whole ordeal is a little like whiplash.

As the short and uninformative guide draws to a close, we loop our way back towards reception and the dormitories. Trudging along happily at the rear of the group, I take my time heading back, happy to allow the others to disappear in front of me. I absorb the campus in my own time and mentally retrace back over the tour, constructing a rough map in my head of everything I can remember.

I cross into the front courtyard and the old willow tree swings into view at the outer boundary, its long branches sweeping against the grass. The soft curtains beckon me, the silky strands almost sighing my name as they tease the ground. I take a moment to consider then I step off the path and jog towards the willow, my shoes sinking guiltily into the well kept lawn. I part the silky curtain of foliage, peer over my shoulder and slip inside.

I swing my backpack off my shoulder and let it roll across the floor, flattening the overgrown grasses inside. I take a seat on the weathered bench and absentmindedly finger a pillow of moss sprouting next to my thigh as I sweep my gaze around the canopy. The willow's leaves cause the sun light to cast a bright green halo in the shadow of the tree, tinting everything under the canopy celery green. The ends of the leaves tickle the earth all around creating a mushroom shaped dome, shielding everything within from the rest of campus like its own private room.

I catch brief glances of the busy campus through the disturbed leaves in short snapshots of time only I am blessed to witness. I stay under the cool shade of the willow silently admiring its beauty and imagining the different paths my life could take from this day forward.

Curiously and unconcerned I glance at the silver face of my watch clasped on my wrist for no apparent reason until mild panic grips me. My first small groups session begins in five minutes. Five minutes and located on the other side of the campus.

I grab the loop of my backpack and haul it over my shoulder as I take off, bulldozing through the curtain of leaves as gently as I can. I forego the winding walkways and cut across the gardens, receiving a select number of displeased stares as I pass. Slowing to a hasty walk, I eye the signposts when I reach a crossroads and follow the arrows to the East Wing - the History block.

When the red brick building comes into view, I expel a sigh of relief and peer back down at my watch. Two minutes to spare. I push through the entrance doors and walk down the corridor, following the labelled doors to my classroom. Studying the closed door of room H7, I slow my steps and allow myself a few seconds to smooth my wind-swept hair and straighten my jumper.

Hesitantly, I peer through the small window in the door and relax at the sight of other students finding their seats. I push down on the plastic handle and slip inside, right on time.

A couple of empty seats are dotted around the room but unfortunately for me, every table already has occupants. I diligently dodge the empty chairs at the front of the room and make my way towards the back where luckily, there is an open seat. Without giving it much thought, I pull out a chair between a brunette boy and a petite red headed girl.

I fish out my empty folder and let it clatter onto the desk a little louder than I intended, warranting a few curious glances from people on the surrounding desks. I smile apologetically and seat myself, fiddling with the corner of my folder as a stubby looking man enters the room, swinging a briefcase in one hand. He pushes his thick-framed glasses higher up his round nose and he uncaps a whiteboard marker, scribbling Prof. Cole in green marker in the bottom corner.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. You don't know me and I don't know you, but that is soon to change. My name is Professor Cole and I will be your small groups teacher for this year." Professor Cole straightens a stack of papers on his desk and brushes away a feathering of nonexistent dust from the worktop. "Today I will keep the content simple and we will revise a basic high school topic that you should all be familiar with - Colonies in Antiquity. Hopefully this will allow you to jog your memories and provide you with the opportunity to brainstorm what you can remember with the people around you. But before we do that, I have some basic information that you may or may not have been taught in your high school that I would like to share with you."

He reaches for another pen - purple this time - and drags it across the board in a scrawl of words. As he races letters across the board, he tell us to copy out whichever parts we wish. I, having never been taught this side of ancient colonisation, rush to match his words on my own paper.

I rifle hurriedly through my pencil case searching for a pen but come up empty handed. My nerves rise as another paragraph mounts the front board.

"Shit," I mutter frustratedly. How can it be that in the packing of my suitcase and very large duffle bag I managed to forget the most important educational supply - a pen?

A black biro pen rolls onto my lined paper, losing its momentum in the centre of the page. I look over to my left where the pen came from, eyeing up the donor. My eyes flash past black denim trousers and a grey t-shirt, past the dusting of stubble across a squared jaw and fixing onto a pair of dark eyes, glinting dangerously like two black pearls. Realising I have been checking out his darkly handsome profile for just over a socially acceptable amount of time, I lift the pen in my hand and throw him a quick lopsided smile in gratitude.

I dutifully bullet point my own version of the dates, facts and sources he has scrawled across the board, trying to ignore the flush that rises to my skin each time I catch a glimpse of him looking my way.

The lesson continues mostly silently, although we briefly break off into pairs to discuss our knowledge about any ancient civilisations we so please. Despite my heart speeding up at the thought of being partnered with him - whoever he was - I was paired up with the girl to my right as there were four people to our table.

When the time comes for our introductory lesson to end, everyone gathers their books in a rush and files out of the door. I pick up the pen and look to return it to its owner but the desk beside me is now empty. I scan the draining room and over the tops of all the other students, a mess of familiar chestnut hair slips out of the door.

I scoop up my folder and pinch the borrowed pen between my fingers as I hurry out the room, dodging table-corners and chair legs. Outside of the classroom I roll onto the tips of my toes spying a sign of his black shirt. Students sift in a chaotic body, buzzing through the hallway in a distracted, random craze. The mass of people expand and contract down the corridor and through a momentary break in traffic, I catch a brief glimpse of his side-profile. I breeze down the corridor, my lack of height finally giving me an advantage as I slip effortlessly through the crowd.

Totally unfazed by my sudden appearance, a smirk stretches across half of his face, his stare unwavering on me. Intent on not letting my resolve dissolve under his gaze, I lengthen my back to showcase my full five foot five inch height.

"Um, your pen," I offer stupidly. "Thank you for letting me borrow your pen." I hold it out for him to take back. Unperturbed by my offer he continues to look at me curiously. I drop my arm lamely.

"Keep it. I'm Will by the way," he says as if I had asked, which I had not.

"Ali," I reply curtly but kindly. I blame the awkward introduction on my atrocious social skills - particularly when I am engaging with a man that has a face crafted by the Gods themselves. "Thanks," I say gesturing to the pen and pocketing it when the silence stretches for longer than it should have. After another moment of consideration, he smiles at me a final time and saunters down the hall. I expel a breath of air I did not know I was holding.