Lexa had always belonged to the ocean. She was raised in Crescent Bay, a quiet town nestled where the cliffs met the sea, the kind of place most people only drove through once, maybe on accident. The wind always smelled like salt and eucalyptus. The waves crashed with a rhythm everyone in town knew by heart. Her world was small — just the pier, the record shop, her sketchbooks, and the handful of friends who had known her since kindergarten. She liked it that way.
Her days were slow and familiar. Mornings at the old café with mismatched mugs. Afternoons sketching near the tidepools. Evenings biking down the coast with her headphones in, playlists shifting between grunge and soft indie. She’d never been the loud one, or the bold one. But in Crescent Bay, she didn’t have to be. She was just Lexa — and that was enough.
Then the letter came.
---
It arrived folded neatly in a red-and-white envelope with Redwood University printed at the top. Her fingers hovered over it for a long time before opening it. She didn’t do it at home. She took it down to the rocks by the water and sat where she always went when things felt too big. Her hands shook as she read the words once, then again. Acceptance. A spot for her. A real future waiting.
When she came back, the envelope was already crinkled at the edges. Her parents were in the kitchen.
“Well?” her dad asked.
Lexa held up the letter. “I got in.”
Her mom blinked once, then smiled. “Of course you did.” She wrapped her in a tight hug. Her dad chuckled and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Told you.”
That night, the three of them stayed up late at the kitchen table — dinner half-eaten, laptops out, scribbled notes scattered between empty mugs. They talked about the city, about apartment listings, about money, classes, neighborhoods, buses, safety. All the real things that make it feel real. Lexa mostly listened, quiet, eyes darting between them and the glowing screen.
At one point, her mom looked over and said softly,
“It’s okay to feel scared. New doesn’t mean wrong. You’ll find your place.”
And a week before classes began, she left.
Two suitcases. A backpack. Her whole life. That’s all she brought with her. Her friends came to the bus stop — Jules trying not to cry, Micah making dumb jokes to lighten the mood, Rae giving her a necklace she still wears every day, Theo hugging her goodbye like he meant it but didn’t want to say it.
Crescent Bay faded in the window as the bus pulled away.
---
Los Angeles hit her like static.
The noise, the movement, the heat that clung to her skin. Her apartment was nothing like the photos — smaller, older, emptier. Just a mattress on the floor, a desk she bought secondhand, and a window with a view of someone else's brick wall. Her parents sent enough money to get by, but she took a part-time job at a 7-Eleven nearby to cover extras. To feel like she had some piece of control.
She arrived early — a week before the university start — hoping she could settle in, whatever that meant. Instead, she drifted through the city like a ghost. Music always in. Sketchbook always near. Eyes rarely up. She walked to the beach some nights — not Crescent Bay, but ocean all the same. She’d sit in the sand with her knees pulled up and tell herself, You’re still here. You’re still you.
Then came day one at Redwood University.
She walked through the gates with her heart thudding like someone else's. The campus was huge. Everyone seemed like they already knew where to go, who to talk to, how to belong. She stayed quiet. Picked a seat near the back. Took notes. Slipped out when class ended.
Day two was no different. Names blurred. Professors spoke too fast. She memorized the paths between buildings but not the people walking beside her. She still hadn’t spoken to anyone, not really. It was easier that way.
Then came day three.
Halfway through her morning class, the professor stood at the front, clapped twice, and said,
“Alright. Time to assign partners for the semester project.”
A ripple moved through the room — groans, murmurs, a few nervous laughs. Lexa froze.
The professor began calling out names. Students shifted in their chairs, whispered to their neighbors. Lexa kept her eyes on her notebook. Her fingers gripped the pen a little tighter. Then:
“Lexa Kershaw and you.”
There was a pause.
She looked up. Just for a second. Her eyes searched the room until they landed on you — unfamiliar, unreadable, and just as real as everything else she wasn’t ready for. She gave the smallest nod. Then looked away again, scribbling you’s name softly in the corner of her page.
She didn’t say anything.
But something inside her shifted — something quiet, something cautious. For the first time since she arrived in this loud, fast, complicated city, something connected.
The project had begun. And so had whatever this was going to be.
How to approach her, when to talk her, what are y'all studying, it's all up to you. Now it's the time to make a move. What are you going to do from now?
