Chapter 3 Three

Drizella had faced a lot of terrifying things in her life.

Emotional breakdowns? Check.

Romantic humiliation? Triple check.

Death-by-sedan? Unfortunately, yes.

But none of that compared to the sheer *existential terror* of facing Mrs. Albright - the college academic advisor and part-time dream-squasher.

She sat across from the woman now, trying not to fidget in the squeaky plastic chair that definitely came from a high school classroom auction. Mrs. Albright looked like she hadn't slept since the '90s. Her gray hair was in a frazzled bun, her eyes half-hidden behind those tiny half-moon glasses, and she stared at Drizella's transcript like it had personally offended her.

"So," Mrs. Albright began, pen poised like a dagger, "you wish to drop *Introduction to Modern Literature*, a required course for your major, and... switch to *Art History of the Renaissance*?"

Drizella put on her best "charming but not too desperate" smile - the one she'd practiced in the mirror back in her old life, but this time without trying to win over a boy.

"Yes, ma'am. I had a... sudden realization. A spiritual awakening. A cosmic re-alignment. Modern Lit just doesn't *speak to my soul* anymore."

Mrs. Albright raised one brow in the way that said, *I've heard every excuse and yours is not special.*

"I see," she said dryly. "And I suppose this change has *nothing* to do with the fact that Dante El-Miserable also happens to be enrolled in that Lit class?"

Okay, maybe Mrs. Albright *did* know everything.

Drizella blinked innocently. "Dante who? Never heard of him."

Mrs. Albright sighed the sigh of someone who regretted not opening a bakery in Paris when she was young. "You've completed your core requirements. If you insist, I can authorize the switch - Professor Thorne is... intense, but she's fair. Just don't fall behind."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Drizella said, already internally celebrating. She signed the paperwork with a flourish that probably wasn't necessary, then stood and waved. "Thank you for saving my GPA, my mental health, and possibly the future of my romantic dignity."

Mrs. Albright blinked slowly. "Close the door behind you."

---

With her soul finally free from Modern Lit Purgatory (and Dante's melodramatic reading voice), Drizella headed straight for the art history lecture hall. It was smaller than the big scary auditorium she used to pretend to pay attention in, and it didn't reek of the cheap cologne that Dante and his fan club always wore.

It smelled like old paper. And success.

Professor Thorne was already going full speed, talking about frescoes and perspective and something called "chiaroscuro" that sounded like a fancy Italian dessert. She had a strict bun on her head but kind eyes, like a librarian who would totally help you research a dragon if you asked nicely.

Drizella grabbed a seat in the back and opened her notebook like an academic warrior.

Halfway through the lecture, something caught her eye.

A guy, a few rows up, was sketching. Not doodling swords like Theo used to, or drawing anime eyes in the margins. This guy was *actually* good. Like, "please-draw-my-face-for-my-wedding-invites" good.

He had dark hair that kept falling over his forehead, and he didn't look up once. His hand moved like it was dancing, and he didn't seem to care about anyone else in the room.

For the first time in forever, Drizella noticed someone - and didn't immediately imagine herself marrying him and raising cats in the countryside.

She just thought, *Huh. He seems cool.*

That was it. No heart fireworks. No imaginary slow-motion wind blowing her hair. Just a little "ooh" in her brain and then back to the lecture.

Progress.

At the end of class, she lingered, organizing her notes (okay, mostly doodles of badly-drawn angels). The guy was still packing up slowly, careful with his stuff. As he stood and turned, their eyes met.

Boom.

Not a romantic boom. A quiet one. Like the sound of a page turning.

He gave her a small, polite smile - the kind of smile that says "hey, I'm not scary," not "I will ruin your life and then ghost you via Snapchat."

And then he was gone.

Drizella sat there for a second longer, whispering to herself, "Okay, universe. Noted."

---

Later that afternoon, she wandered into the common room, where Theodore was pretending to do homework but was really scrolling through food memes.

He was on a beanbag chair. Somehow, it made him look both relaxed and like a confused turtle.

"Yo," she said, flopping into the armchair across from him.

He looked up with a grin. "Well? Did you successfully escape Dante's Literary Dungeon of Despair?"

She held up her hands like a victorious gladiator. "Mission accomplished. I am now officially enrolled in 'Art History of the Renaissance.' Also, I may or may not have had a religious experience involving a lecture slide of the Sistine Chapel."

He raised a brow. "Was the experience enhanced by a mysterious brooding artist type with sketchy eyebrows?"

She laughed. "How did you know?"

"I live in the same building as you. Your type has been painfully obvious since sophomore year."

"Correction: used to be obvious," she said. "This guy? Totally different. He didn't even notice me."

Theodore grinned, dramatically gasping. "A guy... *didn't* immediately become the center of your world? Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?!"

She threw a throw pillow at him. "It wasn't like that. I just noticed him. And then I moved on. That's growth. That's therapy without the bill."

"Proud of you," he said, catching the pillow and hugging it. "Now all you need to do is become a Renaissance art expert, open your own gallery, and ride into the sunset on a Vespa."

"Working on it," she said.

There was a comfortable pause. The kind where no one feels like they have to talk.

Then she sat up a little straighter. "Actually... I have a question."

"Uh oh," he said, mock-panicking. "If it's about the chemistry final, I swear I thought barium was a vegetable."

She rolled her eyes. "No, dork. I wanted to ask... how's your bakery dream coming along?"

His face lit up in a way that made her heart do a tiny hop. "Funny you ask. I've been browsing commercial kitchens. Like, seriously. And I called Mrs. Henderson - remember her? She used to run that café with the killer chai lattes?"

"Of course! She gave me a free cookie that one time I cried over spilling yogurt in my backpack."

"Yeah, well, I'm meeting her next week for coffee. She might have some tips. Or know someone with a small space to rent."

Drizella beamed. "Theo, that's amazing! I'm so proud of you. I mean it."

He shrugged, suddenly shy. "I dunno. I guess after our talk, something clicked. You said I was losing my sparkle."

"You *were* losing your sparkle. You were like a glitter pen with the lid off. Dry and sad."

He snorted. "Thanks, Shakespeare."

"I just mean... I don't want you giving up on your dreams because of me. I want you to bake the world's fluffiest croissants and put everyone on this campus into a pastry coma."

He gave her a look - the soft kind, the real kind, the "I've got your back until the end of time" kind.

"You're my best friend, Drizzy," he said. "I'd bake for you even if it meant surviving off ramen and powdered milk."

"That's oddly specific," she said, giggling.

"I'm a planner."

They sat like that for a bit, comfortable and happy and full of dreams.

And for the first time in years - or maybe in forever - Drizella felt something she hadn't felt in either of her lifetimes.

Hope.

Real, silly, wonderful hope.

And maybe a little excitement, too.

Because for once, her future wasn't tangled up in a boy with too much hair gel and not enough empathy.

This time, it was filled with color, and coffee dates, and croissants.

And whatever came next... she was ready