Chapter 3: Caleb’s Silent War

That same prickling at the back of my neck. I’d gotten so used to it, I could spot his stare in a stadium crowd.

I turned and looked at Caleb, who sat diagonally in the front row.

Sharp brows, high cheekbones, fair skin—those blue eyes deep as a midnight lake.

He was the type of guy who could make a thrift store hoodie look like it belonged in a Vogue editorial. His posture was all coiled intensity, fingers drumming so hard on the desk I thought he might snap his pen.

Right now, he was glaring at the boy who’d just smiled at me. Caleb’s jaw flexed, fingers drumming so hard on the desk I thought he might snap his pen.

When he caught me looking, his eyes shifted, revealing a loneliness and sorrow beneath it all.

Like a poor puppy abandoned by its owner.

Something about the way he dropped his gaze made my chest ache. He looked like a golden retriever left out in the rain—so out of place for someone with such a carefully curated cool.

This was already the tenth time today.

I actually counted, because, well, how could you not? Since this morning, any time a boy spoke to me—whether it was a classmate asking for my Instagram or a club senior discussing something—

He’d appear right on cue, quietly watching from a corner.

Always there, lurking just at the edge of my vision, like some silent security detail or a guy stuck on his own rerun of "The Bachelor: College Edition."

And whenever I noticed him, his lashes would tremble, making him look pitiful and lonely.

He’d bite the inside of his cheek, or fidget with his pen, like he was trying to work up the nerve to say something and falling short every time.

It was just too weird.

I’d never even interacted with him before.

Not a single direct conversation, not even a “hey, can I borrow your notes?”—the kind of thing that happens by accident in college. Nada.

All I knew was that he was Silver Hollow University’s heartthrob, quiet, top of the computer science department.

He had a rep: won some hackathons, TA’d for the hardest prof, always left campus parties before midnight. The kind of guy people swore was either a genius or an alien.

Except for classes, I was rarely on campus, didn’t live in the dorms. I racked my brain but couldn’t figure out how I could’ve possibly offended this guy.

Just as I was about to ask him directly, a fresh round of comments scrolled before my eyes:

[The 29-year-old will cling to his wife for dear life, but 19-year-old Caleb can only silently remind himself he has no right to be jealous.]

[Haha, the desperate husband is thinking: every guy who gets close to my wife is up to something.]

[The male lead traveled from 29 back to 19, and now his wife is someone else’s girlfriend. Total disaster, and these guys keep chatting her up—how is he supposed to handle this?]

[Years of secret love, finally got his wife, now has to start all over again—who wouldn’t go nuts?]

……

The comments scrolled in my mind like a conspiracy subreddit on overdrive. I almost expected a pop-up ad for relationship counseling.