CHAPTER 62
ARIA
I was attending an international academic exchange conference, and the auditorium buzzed with low voices, a faint hum of translation headsets blending with the shuffle of papers.
I sat in the very last row with Mary, the kind of seat people chose when they wanted to fade into the background.
From here, the stage felt distant, and the rows of neatly dressed professors and eager students formed a barrier between us and the speakers at the front.
Beside me, Mary shifted restlessly, tapping her pen against her notebook.
“I should’ve said something this morning,” she muttered, shaking her head.
“I saw Professor Lian in the hotel lobby… just wanted to say hello, but I froze. I can’t believe I didn’t do it.”
She ran a hand through her hair, frustration etched across her face.
“It was the perfect chance, and I just… froze. Ugh, I’m so stupid.”
I gave a faint nod, my posture relaxed, my gaze drifting toward the rows of departing attendees.
Their excitement, their regrets, even Mary’s fretting—
“That was my chance,” Mary continued, voice dropping even lower.
“Just one chance to talk to him, and I—” She ran a hand through her hair, muttering under her breath,
“I let it slip. I can’t believe I let it slip.”
I tilted my head slightly, eyes fixed on the departing crowd.
“Hm,” I said softly, letting the sound hang in the air.
“Well… it happens.”
No urgency, no shared panic.
Just a quiet acknowledgement, the kind that made it clear I wasn’t going to get swept up in her regret.
Her pen tapped again, slower this time, a rhythm that matched the weight pressing on her shoulders.
“I should’ve gone up to him,” Mary muttered, tapping her pen against her notebook.
“Even just a quick hello… something. Anything. But I froze. I don’t know why I froze.”
She sighed, leaning back in her chair, frustration written across every line of her face.
“It’s not like I don’t care about this conference. I just… I wanted him to notice me, to say something meaningful, and— it was gone.”
I watched her, still calm, hands folded loosely in my lap, watching the regret twist her face, the way her jaw tightened when she realised the lost opportunity couldn’t be reclaimed.
Mary ran a hand through her hair again, muttering under her breath,
“I should’ve just… moved. Anything would’ve been better than nothing.”
I pressed my lips into a thin line, offering nothing more than a silent acknowledgement.
I could see how hard she was beating herself up, the way her fingers clenched around the pen, knuckles white.
I should’ve mirrored her urgency, maybe even felt some pang of guilt for not pushing myself forward.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I leaned back in my chair, detached, watching the rows of people leave one by one. Their faces glowed with excitement, pride at having shaken hands with someone important.
I felt nothing.
No envy. No regret.
Just a calm indifference, as though I were only an observer passing through this place, untouched by its meaning.
The venue was packed, the air buzzing with excitement and whispered speculation. Professor Lian’s appearance had drawn a crowd so large that people were even scalping tickets at outrageous prices. The scene felt more like a fan meeting than an academic lecture.
“Can you believe it? I paid three hundred dollars just for this seat!” a young student whispered, eyes wide as she clutched her program.
“No way,” her friend replied, shaking her head.
“I actually traded my weekend tutoring job for this ticket. Totally worth it though—he’s amazing in person.”
From across the seat, another attendee muttered,
“I waited outside for hours, hoping to snag a scalped ticket. Ended up paying double, but honestly… I’d do it again.”
The energy in the room was electric, a mix of awe and disbelief, and even from my seat in the back, I could feel it ripple through the crowd.
When he finally entered, the room seemed to fall silent, every eye fixed on him. His presence alone commanded attention.
The room seemed to inhale all at once.
The chatter dropped off into stunned silence, as though the air itself had been commanded to still.
Heads turned, every gaze pulled to him like a tide. He walked in with the kind of presence that didn’t need announcing, tall and self-assured, his dark suit perfectly tailored, his expression unreadable.
I froze for a second, my phone limp in my hand.
Beside me, Mary let out a small, breathless whisper.
“Oh… he’s so good-looking. Gorgeous,” she murmured, eyes wide as she followed his every move.
God, he really does look like he stepped out of another world. The thought came unbidden, my stomach knotting.
“I can’t believe how perfectly he carries himself,” she added under her breath.
“Every little thing he does… It’s like he’s meant to be in the spotlight.”
I kept my attention steady, pretending not to notice, my posture relaxed.
While the room buzzed with quiet awe—whispers about his appearance, soft gasps of admiration, even someone nudging a friend to look—none of it touched me.
Mary leaned closer to me, her voice dropping even lower.
“Do you see that? Even the way he moves… It’s effortless. How does someone even do that?”
My fingers tightened on my phone, nails pressing into the smooth glass.
No. I couldn’t afford to stare like everyone else.
So I bent my head lower, forcing my eyes to focus on the glow of the screen, pretending I was absorbed in scrolling.
“Wow,” the girl beside me whispered under her breath, clutching her notebook like it was a lifeline.
“He’s even better looking in person.”
I swallowed hard and bit the inside of my cheek.
Don’t look up again.
Don’t you dare.
Just keep your head down.
Still, my heart thudded traitorously against my ribs, as if it hadn’t gotten the memo.
The conference hall buzzed with the low hum of voices, chairs scraping, papers rustling, and the occasional nervous cough.
I tried to tune it all out, eyes fixed on the glowing screen of my laptop as I typed, fingers moving fast to keep up with the opening remarks.
My pen rested on the pad beside me, just in case—I didn’t want to miss a single word.
Beside me, though, Mathew clearly wasn’t taking it as seriously.
He kept nudging me with his elbow, whispering little comments about the keynote speaker’s monotone delivery, or the awkward way someone tripped on the stage steps a moment ago.
I bit the inside of my cheek, willing myself not to laugh, because if I started, I wouldn’t stop.
“Aria,” he whispered again, too close to my ear.
“Bet you a coffee he’ll put half the room to sleep before lunch.”
I shot him a sideways glare, whispering back,
“Stop. I need to get this down.” My fingers didn’t pause on the notebook, but my concentration wavered under his grin.
“And don’t even get me started on the tie,” he continued, his voice low, teasing.
“It’s perfectly… annoyingly precise. Makes me wonder how many times he adjusted it this morning.”
I ignored him.
Matthew leaned over again, nudging my notebook.
“And that woman with the huge hat—does she really think that’s subtle?”
I frowned but kept scribbling, not even looking up.
He whispered, a little louder this time,
“And the guy in the back keeps tapping his pen like he’s conducting an orchestra. It’s driving me crazy just watching him.”
I let out a soft sigh, still focused on my notes.
“Matthew… can you please stop?”
He grinned, undeterred.
“I’m just pointing out the important stuff. You know, the things no one else is noticing.”
Just as I was about to snap at him properly, a sudden hush rolled across the section where we sat.
The air shifted, as if the weight of attention had shifted with it. I looked up, my stomach tightening before I even realised why.
Professor Lian.
He moved with that quiet confidence of his, each step deliberate, every head following him without even meaning to.
And then—God help me—he sat down right beside me.
Not near me.
Not across the row.
Right next to me.
Mary and Mathew froze mid-whisper, his grin wiped clean.
A few people nearby straightened in their chairs, trying—and failing—to pretend they weren’t staring.
The whispering hum of the venue dimmed, like the entire hall had taken note of this small, simple act.
My heart skipped, then stumbled into a faster rhythm. I kept my eyes on my screen, but my fingers faltered, typos appearing where my focus cracked.
Why here?
Why next to me?
I could feel the heat of his presence at my side, the faint scent of his cologne threading through the air, sharp and clean and unmistakable.
I swallowed hard, ducking my head as though I could disappear behind my laptop.
Act normal, Aria. Just… act normal.
Still, the question clawed at me:
Did everyone else see what I saw in this? Or was it only me losing my balance just because he chose this seat?