Here's the thing they don't tell you about starting your second year of University: you come back feeling like you've got it all figured out, only to realize that, nope, you're just a slightly older freshman with worse coffee habits. I mean, I had "plans" this year. Big ones. The kind where I'd focus on my grades, dodge every bit of campus drama, and keep a safe ten-mile radius from anything resembling a sports player with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. But as I dragged my suitcase up the steps of BayU's dorms, sweating through my "New Year, New Me" shirt, I had the strange feeling that at least one of those goals was doomed. And, naturally, right as I'm thinking that, who do I nearly trip over on the way inside? Mr. Hotshot Baseball Player himself. Because apparently the universe thinks I need a test of willpower this semester.

I mean, I didn't "actually" trip over him, but it's close enough. He's just standing there, blocking the doorway, talking to one of his teammates, like the whole world doesn't have somewhere more important to be. He and his friends are all decked out in their school baseball jerseys, this flashy blue and silver getup that practically screams look at us, we're athletes. And he's wearing this expression, you know, the one where someone looks like they've been inconvenienced by the fact that other humans exist?

Yep. That's Bryan Munzo.

The rumour mill has given him many titles over the years, but my personal favourite is "The Heartbreaker." And not just in the usual romantic sense. No, Bryan has a particular skill for devastating the spirits of anyone he's forced to share oxygen with, just with that trademark glare.

"Excuse me, you're blocking me. Could you move, please?" I say shyly, pretending I'm not dying because I had to bring this suitcase up three flights.

He glances over at me with his brown eyes, barely lifting an eyebrow. "What, didn't see me here?"

Oh, I saw him. Unfortunately, it's hard not to see Bryan when he's taking up half the doorway. But no way am I giving him that satisfaction.

"Actually, no," I say, straightening up. "But now that I do... maybe you could move?" I didn't know where all that boldness came from, but I will gladly take it.

There's a flicker of surprise in his eyes, a brief flash that softens his usual hard expression. For one fleeting moment, he almost looks... impressed? But then he casually runs a hand through his dark hair, the movement lifting the hem of his shirt just enough to reveal a glimpse of ink curling along his hip bone—a hint of one of the many tattoos that everyone knows he has but nobody ever sees up close. The sight is distracting, making my heart stumble as I catch the edge of some intricate design, half-hidden, half-daring me to wonder what else is there.

He smirks, letting his gaze linger a bit longer, and then just says it, casual and low, like he's testing me: "You're blushing. It's cute, Amber Lee."

My cheeks burn instantly, a rush of warmth spreading up to my temples. Thanks to my asian genes, my fair skin always flares up. I fight the urge to look away, feeling exposed under his steady gaze, like he's caught onto something I didn't even realize I was giving away. But I hold my ground, forcing myself to stay calm, even though my pulse is still racing.

Of course, he knows my name. Everyone knows everyone's business around here. But there's something about the way he says it, like it's a challenge, like he's waiting to see what I'll do. Wait, did he say I was blushing? Nah, he's just playing with me. Well, I hope.

I push past him, muttering, "Thanks."

He just chuckles, and that's about all the validation he needs before he goes back to his conversation, like I'm already forgotten.

"Bryan freaking Munzo," I mutter to myself as I head to my room, rolling my eyes so hard I practically strain something. I can already tell this is going to be one of those years. The kind where I'll need more coffee, less patience, and a saint's level of self-control to get through it without accidentally losing my cool on someone who desperately deserves it. Because that's the other thing they don't tell you about the second year: sometimes, no matter how good your intentions are, life likes to throw a challenge at you, or a whole fridge in your face, depending on your luck. And judging by the first five minutes, it looks like my challenge this year just walked in wearing a baseball cap and an ego that barely fits through the door.

As I finally drag my suitcase into my tiny room, it feels even smaller after squeezing past the "human wall" in the hallway. Seriously, why do they have to take up the entire space? The walls are a boring beige, but I've tried to make it mine with a few posters—mostly motivational quotes and some of my favourite movies.

My bed is stuffed into one corner, a twin mattress smothered by a wrinkled comforter that's desperately trying to add some personality. Clothes are strewn everywhere, my suitcase still half-open and a couple of shoes just chillin' on the floor. It looks like a tornado of fashion just blew through.

The desk is crammed in the opposite corner, the standard-issue kind that's seen better days, with an avalanche of textbooks and notebooks stacked high. Honestly, it's a miracle nothing has toppled over yet. Next to that, my closet is practically begging for mercy, half-open and stuffed to the brim with jeans, hoodies, and a few items I can't even remember packing.

Above the desk, my corkboard is a blank canvas, just waiting for photos, reminders, and maybe a few doodles to bring it to life. The tiny window at the far end lets in a little light, illuminating the dust floating through the air like tiny fairies.

Isabella, my best friend and partner in dorm decor, bursts through the door just as I'm wrestling with my favourite poster of a dancing ballerina.

"Did you see Bryan?" she squeals, plopping down onto my unmade bed like she owns the place. "He's even hotter than last year!"

I roll my eyes, but I can't help the small smile tugging at my lips. "You mean the guy blocking the doorway like he owns it? Yeah, I had the pleasure of running into him. Literally."

Isabella bursts into laughter, her light blonde curls bouncing as she leans closer, her blue eyes sparkling with something I couldn't describe, even though we've been friends for a year now.

"Please tell me you didn't blush. That would be legendary."

"Who, me? Blush?" I shoot back, trying to keep my tone casual, but I can feel the heat creeping up my neck. "I was just... catching my breath from dragging this suitcase."

"Oh sure, that's what you were doing." She leans back, crossing her arms and grinning. "I think you might need a fan or something to cool off every time you see him."

"Right, because that's exactly what I need, more heat around Mr. Heartbreaker." I toss a stray sock at her, and she giggles, tossing it back. "Anyway, I'm not interested in him. I have more important things to focus on, like not failing my classes."

"Sure, sure," she replies, waving her hand dismissively. "But you have to admit, he's kind of... compelling. You know, like a car crash you can't look away from."

"Is that your way of saying you want me to be in a dramatic love triangle?" I laugh. "Not happening. I'd rather take on an entire literature class solo than deal with his attitude."

"Oh, come on! Just give it a chance. You never know. You might end up hating him, then liking him, and then—" she winks dramatically, "—falling for him."

I shake my head as I detangle my hair with a long-lost brush, both amused and exasperated. "As if I'd fall for someone who thinks 'nice' is a four-letter word."

"Anyway, you have to tell me everything about your summer! I missed you so much!" Isabella practically squealed as she wrapped me in a tight hug.

I laughed, feeling a warmth spread through me. I really missed her, too.

As she chattered on about our plans to catch up, my mind drifted back over the summer and everything that led me here. It still felt surreal, honestly—this whole adventure. Growing up in Quebec, I'd always dreamed of doing something bigger, but a full scholarship to study and dance in the U.S at 19 years old? I never thought I'd actually get it, let alone that it would cover everything. The competition had been fierce—dozens of dancers, all fighting for this one chance. I'd put my heart into every audition and submission, never letting myself believe I'd make it this far.

This scholarship has been a game-changer. Not only does it cover my tuition, but it's also been enough to help with travel and living expenses. It's a huge relief, especially since my mom's been on her own ever since we lost my dad. And every time I think about it, I feel this mix of pride and pressure—it's amazing, but I want to make sure I'm making the most of it, that I'm doing it for all of us.

The summer had been filled with dance rehearsals and quiet nights with my mom. I wanted to soak up as much time with her as possible, knowing that once the semester started, I'd be caught up in classes, training, and everything else here. She's been my biggest supporter, and it's hard being so far from home, knowing she's on her own. But I'm here for a reason, and I know she's proud.

"Earth to Amber?" Isabella's voice snapped me back to the present, a grin spreading across her face. "Did you have time to talk to your mom?" Isabella asks, sounding a bit hesitant.

"Oh, um, not really, but I'll call her tonight. Thanks for the reminder!"

Honestly, my mom is everything to me. She's not just my mom—she's, like, my best friend, my safe place, all wrapped into one. Growing up as an adoptee, there were times when I felt like I didn't totally belong, but she's always made sure I felt loved and understood, no matter what. She'd do these little things, like teach me about my heritage, or remind me that being different was something to celebrate, not shy away from. It was her way of saying, You're home, no matter what.

And ever since my dad passed away, she's been holding us together. I mean, we both felt his loss in such a huge way—he was this big, loving presence in our lives, and suddenly, he was just... gone. Losing him left a huge gap, and it left me terrified of losing her too. So now, even though I'm in the States for school, I'm calling her all the time. Probably more than the average twenty-something calls home, but hey, we're close.

Sometimes I worry that by being here, by pursuing my own dreams, I'm somehow leaving her behind. Like, is it selfish of me to want this independence when I know she's back there, missing him too? It's complicated, but I'm learning that she wants this for me, even if it means being a little farther away. She's my biggest cheerleader, even when I'm unsure of what I'm doing.

We dive into unpacking, laughing as we reminisce about the antics of our first year. We hang up fairy lights and posters, transforming the sterile dorm room into a cozy sanctuary. I push thoughts of Bryan to the back of my mind; it's not like I'm going to see him again anyway.

These last few days here at Baymount University have been particularly exhausting. Not that I had a lot to do—quite the opposite, actually. I'd forgotten just how full of surprises university life can be, both good and bad. Take today, for example: we discovered that our dorm room heat doesn't work at all. Like, not even a whisper of warmth. Not to worry, though, because nights at Sable Shores are warmer than Satan's sauna! I just hope the maintenance guy remembers us this year and doesn't treat us like an abandoned sock at the laundromat again. Isabella and I ended up crammed together in the same bed for two weeks last year, looking like a couple of burritos trying to survive a snowstorm. I think we even became a meme in our own right—two college girls, one bed, and an icebox masquerading as a dorm room. Who knew we'd have to resort to a "cuddle or freeze" strategy? But at the end, i think it brought us closer (pun intended).

Today was a big day—the day we'd finally get our semester schedules! I'd been waiting all summer for this, but now that it was actually here, I felt a mix of excitement and, well, a little panic. I knew the classes this semester were going to be tough, and I was already sweating just thinking about the workload. But I couldn't stay in bed forever, even though it's my favorite place in the world (aka my sanctuary, my bed). So I dragged myself up and headed to the bathroom to start my morning routine.

Last night, I'd fallen asleep watching my favourite show, totally forgetting to take off my glasses. So this morning, I was greeted by some very attractive red marks on my face. Lovely. I looked in the mirror and barely held back a groan—my hair was an absolute disaster. I'd shoved it up in a messy bun before bed, and now it was doing this wild, rebellious thing that could only be tamed by an emergency visit to the hairdresser. I'd been growing it out for months, aiming for that long, effortlessly stylish look, but right now? It was less "effortlessly stylish" and more "escaped from a wind tunnel."

After a much-needed shower, I felt a little more human. I dried my black hair, admiring the length. It's taken me so long to grow it this far, and I love it, even if it has a mind of its own some days. Then, contacts in, I slipped into my favourite light blue and white summer dress. It was warm outside, and I figured a little pop of colour would help me look less like I'd just rolled out of bed (even though I definitely had).

I kept my makeup routine simple, as usual—no need to get too crazy before seeing my schedule. A bit of concealer, some blush to make me look alive, a quick swipe of mascara, a touch of highlighter, and just the slightest flick of eyeliner for a little extra flair. Consistency is key, right? And of course, I put on my favourite necklace—a silver chain with a tiny diamond pendant that I wear every day. All my jewelry is silver because, honestly, matching metals is a hill I'm willing to die on.

Lucky for me, Isabella is the ultimate early bird. She was already ready by the time I was done, so we grabbed our bags and headed out the door. We were determined to be the first ones at the campus kiosk; no way were we going to waste half our morning waiting in line with the entire student body. The walk to campus was buzzing with that back-to-school energy, everyone either groggy or way too perky for this early in the day.

When we got to the kiosk, we were pretty much first in line (victory!). A friendly lady handed us our schedules, and Isabella and I eagerly looked at them, grinning in anticipation. But then... disaster struck. We both stared at our schedules, trying to process the horror in front of us. Out of all our classes this semester, we only had one in common—art class, of all things! Just one?! We exchanged panicked looks, our dreams of being in every class together crashing down in an instant.

"How am I supposed to survive without you?" I asked, clutching my schedule like it was a rejection letter from my social life. Isabella looked just as horrified.

"I don't know, but it's going to be a long semester," she sighed, dramatically putting a hand to her forehead.

We both stood there, tragic expressions on our faces like we were starring in some sad teen drama. This was not how we'd imagined our semester going. Art class would be fun, sure, but what about all the boring lectures and impossible assignments? Who was going to keep me sane during all those hours? Isabella was my go-to partner for everything—complaining about professors, laughing at terrible group projects, making last-minute Starbucks runs. And now? I'd have to tackle it solo.

Alright, full disclosure: Isabella and I don't even study the same thing. I'm majoring in marketing and languages, and she's off doing something in business... or whatever it is business majors actually do. So, logically, we wouldn't have a lot of classes in common, but hey—a woman can dream.

I grabbed my schedule, scanning the list with excitement until my eyes landed on a nightmare. "Marketing, Literature, Art, Dance... and Intensive Spanish?" I blinked, half-convinced there was some mistake. I did a quick U-turn and headed back to the kiosk, determined to clear this up with the (formerly) nice lady behind the counter.

"Excuse me," I said, trying to sound calm. "There seems to be a little... error here. I requested the beginner Spanish class, not Intensive Spanish."

She barely glanced up, giving me a polite but clearly practiced customer-service smile. "Ah, yes, all beginner Spanish classes are full, so you've been placed in the intensive option instead. You'll just need to put in a bit more effort this semester!"

I forced a smile, though internally, I was ready to protest. "Effort? Right, of course... because I'm totally not already drowning in effort." She simply nodded, completely unfazed, so I just sighed and walked away, mentally downgrading her from "nice lady" to "unhelpful schedule gatekeeper."

Later that afternoon, I had to go to the dance studio to fill out some paperwork for my internship and claim a locker for the semester. Unfortunately, the universe decided it was the perfect time to start raining. Not a little drizzle—an all-out downpour. And, naturally, our school has this lovely rule that to even step into the studio, you have to be in full dance attire, hair done and everything. Absolutely brilliant, right?

So, there I was, trying to sprint across campus in a blush pink leotard with skin-colored tights and a little matching pink skirt that stuck to my legs the minute it started getting soaked. To top it off, I had on the studio's black jacket, which didn't stand a chance against the rain. I was sprinting across campus, trying not to faceplant on the slick pavement, while my carefully pinned bun slowly came undone, wet strands sticking to my face and neck.

I was so focused on getting there before I ended up completely drenched that I didn't even notice the person in front of me until I collided with what felt like a brick wall. But nope—it was definitely a person. A very solid person. I stumbled back, blinking up, and realized I'd just run smack into Bryan Munzo. Yeah again, that Bryan Munzo. Tall, latino, intense, and notorious for having a bit of a temper.

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Welcome to Chapter One of The Heart's Perfect Pitch.

I'd love to know what you think! Feel free to leave comments, reactions, and don't forget to vote if you're enjoying the story so far. 

I'll be posting new chapters every Friday, so stay tuned for more!