Free Fare Forward by Wendy Dubow Polins

with sofas and cushioned chairs, these areas became places for gatherings of students. My eyes scan the walls for announcements of interest as I distractedly climb the stairs to the classroom. I hadn't been in this building in many years and look down at the printout of my new schedule to confirm the location of my first classroom and lecture.
    I ignore the strange feeling, that something feels odd. I am surprised not to see a larger crush of students heading to class. I try to focus on my destination. I know this professor, Wallace Gray. Famous for his lectures on James Joyce and T.S. Eliot, he is an old friend of my grandparents. I'm looking forward to taking something completely different from the rigors of the architecture school and seeing a familiar face, a connection to my past.
    "It's poetry, Gabriella." I remember how my grandmother had introduced so many great authors to me at a young age. "It's an architecture of words. The beautiful, lyrical presence of black letters building shapes on a white page."
    I run up the last flight of granite steps as my hand grazes the black iron banister of the building. Their shallow incline allows me to take two at a time. I feel the heavy book-laden backpack bouncing against my body. I round the top landing on the third floor and look down to confirm the room number once more. It is difficult to see in the dim light. The doors in the corridor are all closed, and, once again, I have the strangest feeling. That I am not in the right place.
    It's too quiet.
    Where
is
everybody? Why, despite all my efforts at organization and precision, was I never able to get it together right? I find the room and push the door open with more force than I intend, expecting to see a class full of students. But the space is completely empty and silent. The early-morning light pours through the arched-top windows that face the east side of the campus. The shocking stillness is in marked contrast to the bustling activity in the center of campus. I walk in slowly and drop my bag on the floor, furious with myself, as I realize without a doubt that I am in the wrong place.
    "Great way to start your graduate career, Gabriella. Typical!" I say out loud.
    Frustrated, I sink down into one of the wooden seats that fills the room. I put my head down and feel the heat of my breath on my arm. Yet, it's not just my breathing I notice. I have the distinct feeling that I am not alone in the room. It is a sense that I have often felt, an awareness that is always with me. I pick my head up and move the hair away from my eyes as I try to focus.
    Someone is standing in front of me.
    I thought I had been alone and am embarrassed at my self-deprecatory speech. He looks at me as if he finds some sort of humor in the situation.
    "Hello, are you looking for something?"
    His voice is beautiful, soft, unfazed. He has a slight accent that I don't recognize, different than the New York colloquial ways of speaking.
    Nothing unusual about that, I
am
at Columbia University I remind myself.
    "My class, my first class. Poetry with Professor Wallace Gray. I thought it was in this building, this room. I must have made a mistake."
    I am still clutching my schedule.
    He slips his fingers through his dark wavy hair. I see the strong curve and shape of his shoulders through the pressed oxford shirt he wears, absently tucked into his well-worn corduroys. An olive cashmere sweater is tied around his waist, and his sleeves are rolled up revealing his arms. He places his hands on his hips and looks at me, taking everything in. His gaze is clear, strong, and steady, and I think I detect a slight smile at the edge of his lips, as if he's confirming who I am. He seems to be illuminated by the light entering the room. And then, I see something incredible in his face. He is looking at me with the most beautiful green eyes I have ever seen. The whole scene is so contrary to my expectation that I am unable to string words together. I can't speak, yet