Chapter 1

Hello, my name is

I won't be surprised if London will officially replace Venice as The Floating City one day. The consistent torrential rains are enough to sink the entire city quicker than it ever did in Venice (oh, London, you never change). And this particular October day is no exception.

I'm running late for class and my umbrella is dripping by my side. I slow down to brisk walking as I arrive at my hallway, peeking through the rectangular windows in the doors.

What period is it again? What classroom? God, I knew I should've kept a class schedule on my phone.

"Good morning, Mr. Kirkland. You may take your seat at the back."

Professor Anderson, Sociology. Right.

"Good morning, Sir," I say. "Sorry."

I duck my way to the last row, half expecting the wall to swallow me so I can remain invisible the entire period. I never like drawing in attention to myself, especially when I'm the oldest student in all of my classes; I find it rather shameful at times. Punctuality is not an issue at all – I consistently follow my morning routine without failing, except today, because the blasted alarm clock didn't go off and the train was extremely late. I start thinking I'm in on a joke the universe has set up for me.

Four empty seats stretch between me and the American late comer. I can't recall his name; we only talked once when he started attending class last week. Bent over his seat, he's doodling at the back of his notebook while pretending to listen. How typical of a Business major. If I'm in a joint class that favours Business majors, I may behave the same as well.

He gives me a small smile when our eyes meet from time to time. I don't give anything in return, though I watch him through my peripheral vision.

Everything must be strange to him: living in another place where no one knows his name and dealing with people and their way of life. I bet he feels like he is learning English all over again.

I wonder if he feels like the odd one out.

And I wonder why my mind flutters to my foreign seatmate when the lecture calls for more attention.

My pen jumps out of my hand and rolls to the base of his seat.

Without a second thought, he bends over to get it. He reaches out, smiling with his eyes.

I take my pen and thank him.

What does his smile really mean? He can be judging me for all I know. Mocking because why the hell will someone in his late twenties – particularly a twenty-nine-year-old – still be in uni? Does my face show my age? I imagine creases and wrinkles growing visible in my skin. Paranoia has invaded my mind since I re-entered the university grounds.

The professor says something that steals my attention. I appreciate that he doesn't mind my tardiness. Some professors aren't like that. They can be so unforgiving; making you the flavour of the entire lecture and reiterating your mishap so you will never dare to do it again.

The rest of the lecture flows smoothly, engaging the class about primate cities. I listen while my classmates nod their heads and raise questions. I let it take me back to my homeless days when I tramped around the world as if I owned it.

A daydream flies me outside the window. I'm in the winterless lands on the other side of the globe, basking under the tropical sun...

I sit outside a coffee shop for a smoke and leisure-reading after class. It's hard to find time for my books these days because academic readings have crowded my schedule.

The sun claims its spot in the sky, but the air remains crisp. I stretch my legs, knowing my loafers are safe from the rain.

My friends and I used to frequent this non-commercial coffee shop back before I quit uni. We take the circle tables and agree that it's a thousand times better than the overrated ones people our age love patronising. It will be nice to be with their company again. I keep in mind to message them online and ring the ones around the city.

Just when I thought the grey clouds had ceased pouring over the city, it begins to rain again. What's worse is I left my umbrella under my seat in Sociology class.

"Bloody hell."

I slump back to my seat in defeat.

A shadow emerges on the glinting wet pavement, growing bigger by the second. My American classmate approaches me with my umbrella above his head.

"Uh, hey, man," he says. "You sit by me in Sociology, right? I believe this is yours?"

He speaks in a funny accent that I can't label specifically, but I dismiss the thought.

"Yes, thank you," I tell him. "Have a seat, er..."

"Alfred," he says, stretching a hand. "Alfred Jones. Business Management and Marketing Communications."

"Arthur Kirkland," I say and give his hand a firm grip. "History."

He sits across me and wipes the raindrops from his eyeglasses. His eyes are bluer than I thought, like the sea meeting cloudless skies. He combs his damp hair with his fingers. A stubborn blond strand sticks out from his widow's peak.

He smiles when he catches me studying him.

I hope to God he will carry the conversation for the rest of his stay because it will be very strange if he doesn't.

"Wanna go inside? It looks like it'll rain harder and people will occupy all the seats soon," he says.

I return my book and cigarette box inside my satchel, and bring my teacup along.

There are only three empty tables left and we almost run our way to the nearest one. Putting his bag on his seat, he approaches the counter. I continue reading.

"Are all your classes over?" He comes back with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

I nod.

"Mine too." He sips his cup to think about what to say next. "What other classes do we have together?"

"Only Sociology, I'm afraid," I say.

"What year are you?" he asks because it's a crime to ask people's age.

"I'm in my third year," I say. "I left uni a couple of years ago and came back just in time for the first semester. Fortunately, they credited my first two years so I'll just have to catch up with a few subjects."

He nods, delighted that I have given him my longest reply as of yet. "I'm in my first," he says, "I took a gap year and left the US, you might have guessed."

"Why England?"

He shrugs like a little boy. "For a change?"

There are hundreds of countries to choose from and I don't understand how his answer singles out England from the rest, but I don't tell him.

It occurs to me that the bloke has just come from the comforts of high school life and is probably trying his hardest to find home in this new city. I, on the other hand, return and rediscover the life I've left, which feels like starting from scratch.

We can't be very different from each other.

"Did I miss anything while I wasn't around?" I ask.

He looks up from his cup. "Nothing much. Just an announcement for the first short test next meeting."

"I see."

"Do you mind if I borrow your notes?" he asks. "I couldn't concentrate on the lecture today."

I blink and reach inside my bag. "Yeah, I notice you looking at me once in a while."

He doesn't say anything for a second. He downs his coffee.

"How did you know?" His face breaks to a smirk. "That means you're looking at me, too."

I want to spit my tea but I figure it's not how civilized people react to such assumption.

I let him browse through my notes without a word. He fills a page of his small notebook with sloppy penmanship as I carry on reading. When he finishes, we agree to leave, predicting the rain won't stop soon. And because he doesn't have an umbrella, I offer walking him home.

The walk is uncomfortable as we are cramped inside the protective shield of my umbrella. Avoiding puddles, rushing passersby, and skidding cars, it's an obstacle course. He navigates in a way that spares his sneakers from a miserable fate, but spatters mud on the back of my pressed pants. I carry on pretending not to notice.

We finally reach his apartment complex and a doorman greets us.

"Thank you," he says, giving me that ridiculously bright smile of his.

"Don't mention it," I reply.

As I'm about to say goodbye, he grabs my arm and says, "L-Listen, I really appreciate you talking to me today." He contemplates on his muddy shoes.

I wait for him to say more, but all he adds is, "See you in class."

Years of experience help me meet people from all walks of life and I know he's the kind whose awkwardness disappears with friends, which reminds me that I haven't seen him with any group of friends yet. Conversations like this come and go (he will soon find his respective place and create a bubble of comfort around him, I'm sure), but I can't see any problem being friends.

"See you."

I open my umbrella and brave the heavy downpour. I head back to my flat, shivering from the recurring thrills of student life, deciding to take the seat beside Alfred Jones next time.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

If you think Alfred is a tad too shy and awkward, wait for the next chapters. eue

shall i continue