Chapter 1: The Wrong Screen
Aaliyah navigated the Crestwood campus with the practiced ease of someone who knew every shortcut, every hidden bench, every patch of uneven sidewalk. The autumn air, crisp and carrying the scent of dying leaves, swirled around her as she hurried toward Hall Auditorium. Her film studies lecture started in, like, two minutes, and Professor Davies had a zero-tolerance policy for tardiness. Not that Aaliyah blamed him. She hated when people strolled in late, disrupting the flow.
She clutched her textbooks tighter, the weight a familiar comfort. Today's fit was peak Aaliyah: a vintage corduroy skirt she'd scored at a thrift store last week, paired with a chunky knit sweater in a mustard yellow that somehow, against all odds, complemented her skin tone. Doc Martens, scuffed but reliable, pounded the pavement. She liked the rhythm, the way it grounded her. Even when her mind felt like a runaway train, her feet kept a steady beat.
Crestwood was buzzing. Not just with the usual academic fervor, but with something else, something…charged. Aaliyah could feel it in the air, a low hum of anticipation that vibrated beneath the surface of everyday life. It took her a second to realize what it was: Oakbridge. The Oakbridge game.
The annual Crestwood-Oakbridge football game was less a sporting event and more a full-blown cultural phenomenon. The rivalry ran deeper than the gridiron; it was woven into the very fabric of the universities, a clash of ideologies and aesthetics as much as athletic prowess. Crestwood, with its ivy-covered walls and commitment to intellectual pursuits, versus Oakbridge, the jock-heavy powerhouse known for its sprawling campus and, according to Aaliyah, its infuriatingly arrogant student body.
She rolled her eyes, the image of Oakbridge's golden-boy quarterback flashing through her mind. Ethan Blackwood. Ugh. The name alone tasted like stale beer and entitlement. She'd seen him once, last year, at some off-campus party. He’d been surrounded by a gaggle of adoring fans, his laughter booming a little too loud, his presence radiating a self-assuredness that bordered on offensive. Quarterbacks, she thought, were so overrated.
She dodged a gaggle of students sporting Crestwood blue and gold, their faces painted with the university logo. Aaliyah loved school spirit as much as the next person, but she had more important things to worry about than a football game. Like, for example, finishing her documentary on the local arts scene. Or convincing Professor Davies that her experimental film wasn't *too* experimental. Or maybe, just maybe, finding a decent cup of coffee that didn't taste like burnt tires.
Rounding the corner of Hall Auditorium, she picked up her pace, her breath coming in short bursts. She could hear Professor Davies's voice, a low drone that meant he'd already started. Damn it. She was going to be late. She could already feel the heat rising in her cheeks, the familiar sting of frustration prickling at her eyes.
Aaliyah burst through the double doors of the auditorium, nearly colliding with a group of students spilling out. Textbooks flew, coffee sloshed, and a symphony of apologies erupted. "Oh my god, I am so sorry!" she exclaimed, scrambling to gather her things. A hand, large and surprisingly gentle, reached out to help her. She glanced up, met a pair of startlingly blue eyes, and mumbled another apology before gathering her scattered belongings. It wasn't until she was halfway to her seat, heart still hammering against her ribs, that she realized her phone was missing.