The shrill shriek of the dismissal bell pierced the air, jolting Isabella awake from her daydream. Professor Chang's monotone drone about the intricacies of 17th-century French poetry had officially lulled her to sleep. She blinked, momentarily disoriented, before the controlled chaos of a hundred bodies shuffling out of the lecture hall jolted her back to reality.

With a sigh, she hoisted her backpack, its familiar weight strangely comforting. Dodging elbows and muttered curses, she navigated the human tide towards the exit. My stomach rumbled, reminding her that the last time she'd seen the inside of a cafeteria was probably breakfast.

Pushing through the heavy oak doors, she was met with the cacophony of the campus quad. Laughter mingled with the rhythmic slap of a frisbee against the grass, and the sweet scent of barbeque from a nearby food truck filled her nose. A wave of relief washed over her. Fresh air, sunshine, and the promise of actual food – the trifecta of college heaven.

As usual, she scanned the crowd for her beacon of sanity - Clara Jones. A flash of fiery red hair caught her eye, and a smile spread across her face. There she was, perched on a weathered stone bench under the shade of a sprawling oak, her nose buried in a worn copy of "Pride and Prejudice."

"Clara!" Isabella called, weaving through a group of skateboarders practicing their tricks.

She looked up, a grin splitting her face. "Isabella! You look like you survived another round of Chang's torture chamber."

Isabella flopped down onto the bench beside her, letting out a dramatic groan. "Barely. Did you take notes? I may have drifted off to dreamland during the whole French Revolution bit."

Clara chuckled, snapping her book shut. "Don't worry, Chang's handwriting qualifies as ancient hieroglyphics anyway. We can decipher it together later."

They launched into their usual lunchtime routine: a whirlwind of girl talk that spanned the latest campus gossip (apparently, the new resident advisor in West dorm had a pet ferret named Truffles), their weekend plans (movie night at Clara's, complete with questionable pizza choices), and the ongoing saga of Clara's disastrous attempt at online dating.

As Isabella recounted the horror story of Clara's date who wore socks with sandals (a cardinal sin, according to Clara), she felt a familiar prickle of self-consciousness. Her gaze drifted across the quad, unconsciously searching for a familiar face.

And then she saw him.

Leaning against a brick wall, a group of guys gathered around him, a basketball tucked under his arm. He was laughing, his head thrown back, the sunlight catching the warm brown of his hair. It was Ethan Miller, his smile as devastating as ever. Her heart skipped a beat, a familiar fluttering in her chest that she'd tried so hard to ignore.

Clara nudged her, her eyes following hers. "Still pining after Mr. Perfect over there?"

Isabella tore her gaze away, a blush creeping up her cheeks. "What? No! I barely even know him."

It wasn't entirely a lie. They'd exchanged a few awkward smiles in Introduction to Astrophysics (a class she only took because, well, Ethan Miller), but that was the extent of their interaction. Still, the way her stomach flipped whenever their eyes met was starting to become a problem.

Clara raised an eyebrow, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Uh-huh. Sure you don't. So, are you going to talk to him anytime soon, or are you content with your daily dose of silent longing?"

Isabella took a deep breath, the warmth of the sun suddenly feeling oppressive. "Maybe. I don't know."

But as she watched him across the quad, a mischievous glint sparked in her eyes. Maybe a little harmless longing wouldn't hurt. Maybe.