"Be better than me… Be better than this World".
Those were the last words Rick ever heard from her lips.
The sky was gray the day she died. Not stormy. Not bright. Just... still. Like even the world held its breath for her.
Rick Fyer stood under the withered maple tree at the cemetery, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black coat, his frame motionless.
He wasn't crying.
He couldn't.
His tears had dried out three nights ago, screaming silently into a hospital hallway wall.
Seventeen years old, and now completely alone.
No father. No siblings. Just him... and that voice in his head, her voice, stuck on repeat.
"Promise me you'll live, Rick. Not survive — live."
He had made the promise. Right there at her bedside, holding her frail hand, as the machines beeped slower and slower behind him.
And now, three years later, he still repeated it like a vow every morning.
Present Day– Carter University Campus
A black hoodie. Wireless earbuds. Face calm, unreadable. That's how Rick moved through the world.
He was twenty now. Tall, athletic, clean-cut — the kind of guy who could stand out if he wanted to, but preferred to disappear. While others partied or posted their lives online, Rick kept his head down and his record clean.
He wasn't running from life. He was hunting purpose. Whatever that meant.
Today was the first day of his second semester transfer. New major. New campus. New faces. Another attempt at "better."
He adjusted his bag as he passed the entrance gate. The university looked modern and sterile, all glass and steel and precisely-cut hedges. He didn't care. He wasn't here for architecture.
He had goals.
Top of the class.
Gym six days a week.
Part-time job.
No distractions.
Especially not romantic ones.
Cafe Courtyard, 2:40PM
Rick grabbed a black coffee and sat under the big oak tree by the student commons. Quiet spot. Good light. He opened his laptop, checking course materials.
Most people didn't expect a guy like him — athletic and stoic — to major in literature and cognitive behavior. But it made sense.
Understanding the mind meant understanding pain. Healing. Growth.
That's what he wanted. For himself. Maybe... eventually, for others.
A voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Hey... you're sitting in my spot."
He looked up.
She stood there with a half-smile and too much energy for a Monday. Denim jacket, headphones around her neck, and a coffee that looked like dessert in a cup. She tilted her head.
"Well?"
Rick blinked once, expression unchanging.
"There are ten empty benches."
"Yeah," she grinned, "but this one is my bench. For vibes."
Rick studied her for a second, then closed his laptop slowly.
"Vibes?"
"Exactly. It's where I write poetry and judge people silently. Don't ruin my creative flow."
A beat of silence. Then — to her surprise — he stood up.
"Enjoy your bench."
He moved to leave.
She blinked, caught off guard.
"Wait, I was kidding— You didn't have to actually move."
"Too late. Your creative flow's endangered. I respect the ecosystem."
She laughed. Genuinely.
"Okay, that was smooth. You always this intense?"
He glanced over his shoulder with a faint smirk.
"Only on Mondays."
She watched him walk away, sipping her drink.
"Hmm... mystery guy."
Later that night– Apartment
Rick dropped his bag, pulled off his hoodie, and sat on the edge of his bed. No music. No TV. Just silence.
On his wall: a small, worn photo of his mom in the hospital. Smiling.
He stared at it for a while.
"I kept the promise today."
"But why did it feel... different?"
He closed his eyes. For the first time in a long while, something about the day lingered.
Not pain.
Not guilt.
Just... a spark.