Amare

Introduce Yourself

The psychology lecture hall hummed with the low energy of a first-day class. 

Sunlight poured through tall windows, spilling across rows of desks that sloped upward in gentle waves. The faint buzz of the air conditioning blended with the rustling of papers and the occasional scrape of chairs on linoleum. 

Students gathered in small clusters, their voices a mixture of excitement and nervousness, punctuated by bursts of laughter from somewhere near the back.

In the corner, a boy with dyed blue hair tapped his pen against a closed notebook, his headphones casually draped around his neck. 

Two rows ahead of me, a girl rummaged frantically through her bag, muttering about losing her planner. 

In the front row, a lanky guy in a baseball cap scrolled on his phone, completely oblivious to the world around him. 

Everywhere I looked, little snapshots of personalities began to emerge—people I might never know or might end up sitting next to for the rest of the semester.

The professor entered, stepping confidently toward the podium. She was in her late forties, with sharp, intelligent eyes framed by rectangular glasses, and a stray strand of hair tucked behind her ear. 

Adjusting her scarf, she scanned the room as though she could already read us all.

"Alright, everyone," she said, her voice firm but kind. "Let's get this started. I know you're all eager to dive into the material, but first, I'd like us to introduce ourselves. Name, major, and one interesting fact about you. Let's keep it brief."

A collective groan rippled through the room—more resigned than defiant. The blue-haired boy in the corner muttered something under his breath, prompting the girl next to him to stifle a laugh.

One by one, students stood. Some spoke confidently, as if they'd rehearsed their introductions, while others mumbled their way through.

"I'm Emily," said the girl who had lost her planner. She waved a little too enthusiastically. "Psych major. Fun fact—I once camped for three days in the Rockies and forgot my tent!"

"I'm Jake," said the baseball cap guy, barely looking up from his phone. "Also psych. Uh... I can do magic tricks." He shrugged nonchalantly before sitting back down.

Next was a soft-spoken girl who blushed as she introduced herself as Maria, a linguistics major fluent in five languages. Her voice barely carried to the back of the room, but a ripple of impressed murmurs followed.

Then it was my turn.

I stood, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, hoping to appear more composed than I felt. The creak of my chair as I stood seemed deafening. "Hi," I said, trying to sound casual. "I'm Ai. I'm majoring in art, and... I like painting, of course." I glanced toward the professor, who gave a faint, encouraging smile. "Oh, and I write stories too. That's it."

I sat down quickly, relieved to have the attention off me. A few students murmured polite responses, but I focused on my notebook, sketching the beginnings of an octopus holding a teacup. The arms were already looking uneven.

Next to me, Sol shifted in his seat, and the faint scrape of his chair drew the room's attention. He rose, his movements deliberate, his expression unreadable. The sudden quiet stretched as everyone waited.

"Sol Apollo," he said, his voice smooth but laced with detachment. His eyes didn't settle on anyone in particular. "Undeclared major. Not really into fun facts." He paused. "I guess I write sometimes."

His tone was clipped, as if daring anyone to question his brevity. A few students exchanged glances, intrigued or unsettled by his aloofness, but Sol didn't seem to notice—or care. He sat back down, the same nonchalance returning, his gaze fixed ahead as though the moment was already over.

I nudged him lightly with my elbow, unable to resist. "Not into fun facts, huh?"

A faint smirk played across his lips, but he didn't look at me. "Not today."

"Fair," I whispered, suppressing a smile as I returned to my doodle.

The introductions continued, some punctuated by awkward silences or bursts of laughter, but the buzz of curiosity surrounding Sol lingered. 

By the time the last student finished, the professor had moved on to the syllabus, her voice drawing us back to the present. 

Sol leaned back in his chair, hands tucked behind his head, looking more like someone unwinding in a coffee shop than attending a lecture.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He seemed cold on the surface, sure, but there was something about him that didn't quite match the indifference he wore so effortlessly. 

Something deliberate, like he was hiding in plain sight.

For now, I let it go, tucking the thought away as the professor continued on about grading policies and assignments.