You first meet the girl named Rose Lalonde in your poetry class. You’ve arrived early on the first day and have situated yourself in the front of the classroom. As this is definitely not a class for your fashion major, you’ve decided to have some fun. And nurture the unhealthy love for writing bad, overdramatic poetry you’ve had since you were 13.
And then she walks in. She’s late, so all the eyes in the classroom naturally turn to watch her entrance. Which could very easily described as fashionably late. She has the most racoon like eyeshadow you’ve ever seen someone successfully pull off, and a pink headband that is the only bit of color in her whole outfit. You let your eyes drift downward, and are impressed by the combination of a crop top and tulle skirt that look absolutely fantastic on her. You don’t even know her name, and she’s looking right at you. You both hold the eye contact for a moment before she’s shepherded by the professor into the only open seat in the room, the one next to you.
She sits down without a word. Despite yourself, you blush and refrain from sneaking any more glances at her for fear of her catching you doing so. You’re trying to pay attention to the lesson, but knowing she’s sitting next to you, the beautiful mystery girl, is too much. You’re doodling in the margins when she slides a piece of paper over to you.
I’m Rose. You?
I’m Kanaya. It’s a pleasure to meet you.
And I you. Any interest in the poetic arts beyond that of the casual?
Nothing professional. But I would say that my obsession with writing amateur poetry goes a little beyond casual.
Of course. Any writer worth their salt knows professionals start as amateurs with obsessions.
A very succinct way of putting that, I suppose. Do you write?
Unfortunately, before you can get an answer to that question, the professor assigns you all to write a short poem about whatever’s on your mind so everyone can share with the class. Yours isn’t anything special, just describing the campus you’re still getting used to. Its abstract in a good way, you suppose.
Rose stands up to take her turn reading her poetry, and makes deliberate eye contact with you, and winks. She takes a deep breath, and performs. You think you might be a little bit in love.