Burnt Sugar and Cold Coffee
My university experience started not with a lecture, but with a public, culinary humiliation, courtesy of a stranger with too-green eyes and a penchant for clumsy apologies.
INT. UNIVERSITY CAFETERIA - LATE AFTERNOON
A cavernous, repurposed gymnasium of a room, bathed in the sickly yellow-green light of humming fluorescent tubes. The air is THICK, humid, clinging.
SOUND: The oppressive, overlapping din of a hundred chattering FRESHMEN, the clatter of plastic trays, a distant, strained pop song.
JULIAN (18), cynical and observant, pushes a tray through the space. He wears a faded band t-shirt and worn-out sneakers. His expression is one of profound, practiced indifference.
He nudges a half-eaten, abandoned muffin on the chipped linoleum with his toe. It looks ancient.
CLOSE ON Julian’s tray: pallid chicken fingers, limp salad greens, and a PASTA BAKE that shimmers with an unnatural, greasy sheen.
He eyes the exit, ready to ditch the whole endeavor. He navigates a dense cluster of bright-eyed freshmen, all sporting identical ‘New Beginnings!’ lanyards.
Suddenly, a shadow blooms to his right. Fast. Uncoordinated.
IMPACT.
A jarring slam into Julian’s side sends him lurching. His tray launches into the humid air.
TIME STRETCHES. THE SOUND DAMPENS TO A LOW RUMBLE.
IN SLOW MOTION:
A plastic fork does a lazy, beautiful flip, reflecting the sickly ceiling lights.
The greasy chicken fingers hang suspended, a greasy tableau.
The PASTA BAKE -- a viscous, orange-red comet -- arcs through the air, its trajectory aimed directly at Julian’s chest.
BACK TO REAL TIME.
SPLAT.
A warm, shockingly wet splash hits Julian’s shirt. It sags instantly with the weight. A second, heavier deluge follows. The main mass of the pasta bake oozes down his front, leaving trails of congealed sauce and unidentifiable vegetable bits.
A small GASP ripples through the nearby crowd.
Julian stands frozen. His eyes are wide, glazed with a mixture of shock and profound annoyance. The heat of the pasta seeps through the fabric.
His gaze slowly focuses on the source of the disaster.
AUGUST (18) stands two feet away. Taller than Julian, with hair that curls just a little too perfectly and a face of sharp angles and scattered freckles. His own tray lies upside down on the floor in a puddle of spilled iced tea.
August’s face is flushed a deep, uncomfortable red. His eyes—a vibrant, startling green—are fixed on Julian, wide and horrified.
AUGUST
Oh. Uh. Oh no.
His voice is a soft baritone, struggling. He takes a hesitant step forward, his gaze flicking from Julian’s pasta-covered shirt to the growing puddle on the floor. He doesn’t know which disaster to address first.
Julian just stares. His default setting—biting sarcasm—is jammed. His mind is a blank screen, flashing only with the image of a slowly rotating chicken finger.
AUGUST
(stammering)
I, uh. I really am... I am so
sorry.
The silence between them is excruciating. The background din of the cafeteria seems to sharpen, every clatter and laugh aimed directly at them.
Julian finally manages to speak. The words taste like lint.
JULIAN
(flat)
It’s, uh, okay.
August blinks, his too-green eyes widening slightly.
AUGUST
It’s... really not. Oh god, your
shirt. And... everything.
He gestures vaguely at the floor, where a lone fly is already buzzing a reconnaissance mission. He shuffles his feet.
AUGUST (CONT'D)
I should... I can, uh, get you a
new one. A shirt, I mean. Or... or
pay for yours. And clean this.
Definitely clean this.
Julian looks down at the pasta clinging to his chest, then back up at August’s face.
JULIAN
It’s fine.
AUGUST
No, it’s not fine. Look, I was...
I just wasn’t looking. I got
distracted. Some guy was, like,
doing a really bad magic trick with
a napkin, and I, uh, yeah.
The explanation evaporates. August fidgets, shifting his weight. A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch plays at the corner of his mouth.
JULIAN
(quietly)
Well. You made a mess.
It’s not an accusation. Just a statement of fact.
AUGUST
(a mumbled confirmation)
Yeah.
He runs a hand through his perfect hair, messing it up just enough to look human. For a fraction of a second, their gazes lock. The humid, pasta-scented air seems to thicken, pressing in.
AUGUST (CONT'D)
(clears his throat)
I really want to fix this. My
name’s, um, August. I’m in general
studies. What’s... what’s your
name?
Julian’s eyes drift past him to a flickering LED display announcing a ‘Taco Tuesday!’ special. It’s Friday.
JULIAN
(a grudging exhale)
Julian.
August seems to deflate slightly at the curt response.
AUGUST
Right. Julian. Okay, Julian. So,
uh, I’m going to go get some paper
towels and some... some sort of
cleaner. You... you probably
shouldn’t just stand there, though.
You’ll, um, dry sticky.
The image of himself, a pasta-encrusted statue, is enough to stir a flicker of something deep inside Julian. It doesn’t reach his face.
JULIAN
Genius observation.
The sarcasm is so muted it’s almost imperceptible. August just nods too vigorously and practically bolts towards a cleaning supply closet.
Julian watches him go, then looks down at himself. The kid who got slimed.
MOMENTS LATER
August reappears, armed with a roll of industrial-strength paper towels and a spray bottle. He approaches with a hesitant, apologetic air.
AUGUST
Here. For... for the immediate
impact zone.
Julian takes the rough paper towels and starts dabbing at his chest. It’s a futile effort, just smearing the sauce.
August kneels down, tackling the floor with surprising vigor.
SOUND: The rhythmic SHUSH-SHUSH of his scrubbing fills the small pocket of space around them.
He works methodically, brow furrowed in concentration. After a moment, he stands, wiping his hands on his jeans. He looks at Julian’s still-stained shirt.
AUGUST (CONT'D)
Okay, that’s... that’s not really
coming out, is it?
(chews his lip)
Look, I have a spare shirt in my
dorm. It’s... it’s a size large,
maybe a bit big on you, but it’s
clean. And dry. And not covered in
pasta. We’re in the same dorm
building, I think? South Wing? I’m,
um, room 312.
The information lands. Julian’s mind processes it. Room 312. His own room is 310. The universe’s idea of a punchline. Of course.
He looks at August, really looks at him. At the open, unvarnished quality of his face, the nervous hope in his eyes.
Julian lets out a sigh that feels heavier than it should.
JULIAN
Fine. A shirt would be... helpful.
A small, relieved breath escapes August. A real, if still nervous, smile touches his lips.
AUGUST
Great. Awesome. Uh, yeah. Just...
follow me, then? I guess?
He gestures vaguely towards the exit. Julian gives a stiff, almost imperceptible nod.
EXT. UNIVERSITY CAMPUS - CONTINUOUS
They step out of the cafeteria into the oppressive late-August heat. The high-pitched DRONE of cicadas hangs in the air.
Julian follows August, his gaze drifting to the back of August’s grey t-shirt, stretched taut across his shoulders. The way the sunlight catches his dark hair, turning the strands to warm copper, feels like an unnecessary detail his brain shouldn’t be processing.
INT. MAIN CAMPUS BUILDING - CONTINUOUS
They enter the blessedly cooler, climate-controlled sterility of the main building. Fluorescent lights hum.
SOUND: The faint squeak of Julian’s sneakers on the polished floor.
They walk in a charged silence. Julian is hyper-aware of August’s presence beside him, a strange buzzing at the back of his skull.
As they approach the elevators, August glances back, a quick, shy look. His green eyes catch Julian’s for a fraction of a second. Julian immediately averts his gaze, staring pointedly at the illuminated ‘Up’ arrow.
INT. ELEVATOR - CONTINUOUS
The doors hiss shut, encasing them in a small, brightly lit box. The air smells of cleaning products and metal.
August presses the button for ‘3’.
The ascent is silent. Julian keeps his eyes fixed on the illuminated numbers above the door as they tick upwards: 1... 2... 3.
INT. DORMITORY HALLWAY - THIRD FLOOR - CONTINUOUS
The doors open onto a long, silent hallway. Pale yellow walls, industrial carpet, numbered doors. Mundane.
August walks two paces ahead, his shadow stretching long against the wall. The silence here feels different. Heavier.
He stops outside Room 312, fumbling with a swipe card. His fingers seem to stick to the plastic. He looks up at Julian, a small, apologetic half-smile on his lips.
AUGUST
So, uh. This is me.
His voice is quiet now, a murmur. The green in his eyes, under the muted hallway light, seems more subdued.
The air is thin and cool, holding its breath.
CLOSE ON JULIAN, standing on the threshold of Room 312. Coated in drying pasta sauce, caught on the precipice of an unwelcome connection he can no longer escape. The simple offer of a shirt now feels like something much, much more significant.
A cavernous, repurposed gymnasium of a room, bathed in the sickly yellow-green light of humming fluorescent tubes. The air is THICK, humid, clinging.
SOUND: The oppressive, overlapping din of a hundred chattering FRESHMEN, the clatter of plastic trays, a distant, strained pop song.
JULIAN (18), cynical and observant, pushes a tray through the space. He wears a faded band t-shirt and worn-out sneakers. His expression is one of profound, practiced indifference.
He nudges a half-eaten, abandoned muffin on the chipped linoleum with his toe. It looks ancient.
CLOSE ON Julian’s tray: pallid chicken fingers, limp salad greens, and a PASTA BAKE that shimmers with an unnatural, greasy sheen.
He eyes the exit, ready to ditch the whole endeavor. He navigates a dense cluster of bright-eyed freshmen, all sporting identical ‘New Beginnings!’ lanyards.
Suddenly, a shadow blooms to his right. Fast. Uncoordinated.
IMPACT.
A jarring slam into Julian’s side sends him lurching. His tray launches into the humid air.
TIME STRETCHES. THE SOUND DAMPENS TO A LOW RUMBLE.
IN SLOW MOTION:
A plastic fork does a lazy, beautiful flip, reflecting the sickly ceiling lights.
The greasy chicken fingers hang suspended, a greasy tableau.
The PASTA BAKE -- a viscous, orange-red comet -- arcs through the air, its trajectory aimed directly at Julian’s chest.
BACK TO REAL TIME.
SPLAT.
A warm, shockingly wet splash hits Julian’s shirt. It sags instantly with the weight. A second, heavier deluge follows. The main mass of the pasta bake oozes down his front, leaving trails of congealed sauce and unidentifiable vegetable bits.
A small GASP ripples through the nearby crowd.
Julian stands frozen. His eyes are wide, glazed with a mixture of shock and profound annoyance. The heat of the pasta seeps through the fabric.
His gaze slowly focuses on the source of the disaster.
AUGUST (18) stands two feet away. Taller than Julian, with hair that curls just a little too perfectly and a face of sharp angles and scattered freckles. His own tray lies upside down on the floor in a puddle of spilled iced tea.
August’s face is flushed a deep, uncomfortable red. His eyes—a vibrant, startling green—are fixed on Julian, wide and horrified.
AUGUST
Oh. Uh. Oh no.
His voice is a soft baritone, struggling. He takes a hesitant step forward, his gaze flicking from Julian’s pasta-covered shirt to the growing puddle on the floor. He doesn’t know which disaster to address first.
Julian just stares. His default setting—biting sarcasm—is jammed. His mind is a blank screen, flashing only with the image of a slowly rotating chicken finger.
AUGUST
(stammering)
I, uh. I really am... I am so
sorry.
The silence between them is excruciating. The background din of the cafeteria seems to sharpen, every clatter and laugh aimed directly at them.
Julian finally manages to speak. The words taste like lint.
JULIAN
(flat)
It’s, uh, okay.
August blinks, his too-green eyes widening slightly.
AUGUST
It’s... really not. Oh god, your
shirt. And... everything.
He gestures vaguely at the floor, where a lone fly is already buzzing a reconnaissance mission. He shuffles his feet.
AUGUST (CONT'D)
I should... I can, uh, get you a
new one. A shirt, I mean. Or... or
pay for yours. And clean this.
Definitely clean this.
Julian looks down at the pasta clinging to his chest, then back up at August’s face.
JULIAN
It’s fine.
AUGUST
No, it’s not fine. Look, I was...
I just wasn’t looking. I got
distracted. Some guy was, like,
doing a really bad magic trick with
a napkin, and I, uh, yeah.
The explanation evaporates. August fidgets, shifting his weight. A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch plays at the corner of his mouth.
JULIAN
(quietly)
Well. You made a mess.
It’s not an accusation. Just a statement of fact.
AUGUST
(a mumbled confirmation)
Yeah.
He runs a hand through his perfect hair, messing it up just enough to look human. For a fraction of a second, their gazes lock. The humid, pasta-scented air seems to thicken, pressing in.
AUGUST (CONT'D)
(clears his throat)
I really want to fix this. My
name’s, um, August. I’m in general
studies. What’s... what’s your
name?
Julian’s eyes drift past him to a flickering LED display announcing a ‘Taco Tuesday!’ special. It’s Friday.
JULIAN
(a grudging exhale)
Julian.
August seems to deflate slightly at the curt response.
AUGUST
Right. Julian. Okay, Julian. So,
uh, I’m going to go get some paper
towels and some... some sort of
cleaner. You... you probably
shouldn’t just stand there, though.
You’ll, um, dry sticky.
The image of himself, a pasta-encrusted statue, is enough to stir a flicker of something deep inside Julian. It doesn’t reach his face.
JULIAN
Genius observation.
The sarcasm is so muted it’s almost imperceptible. August just nods too vigorously and practically bolts towards a cleaning supply closet.
Julian watches him go, then looks down at himself. The kid who got slimed.
MOMENTS LATER
August reappears, armed with a roll of industrial-strength paper towels and a spray bottle. He approaches with a hesitant, apologetic air.
AUGUST
Here. For... for the immediate
impact zone.
Julian takes the rough paper towels and starts dabbing at his chest. It’s a futile effort, just smearing the sauce.
August kneels down, tackling the floor with surprising vigor.
SOUND: The rhythmic SHUSH-SHUSH of his scrubbing fills the small pocket of space around them.
He works methodically, brow furrowed in concentration. After a moment, he stands, wiping his hands on his jeans. He looks at Julian’s still-stained shirt.
AUGUST (CONT'D)
Okay, that’s... that’s not really
coming out, is it?
(chews his lip)
Look, I have a spare shirt in my
dorm. It’s... it’s a size large,
maybe a bit big on you, but it’s
clean. And dry. And not covered in
pasta. We’re in the same dorm
building, I think? South Wing? I’m,
um, room 312.
The information lands. Julian’s mind processes it. Room 312. His own room is 310. The universe’s idea of a punchline. Of course.
He looks at August, really looks at him. At the open, unvarnished quality of his face, the nervous hope in his eyes.
Julian lets out a sigh that feels heavier than it should.
JULIAN
Fine. A shirt would be... helpful.
A small, relieved breath escapes August. A real, if still nervous, smile touches his lips.
AUGUST
Great. Awesome. Uh, yeah. Just...
follow me, then? I guess?
He gestures vaguely towards the exit. Julian gives a stiff, almost imperceptible nod.
EXT. UNIVERSITY CAMPUS - CONTINUOUS
They step out of the cafeteria into the oppressive late-August heat. The high-pitched DRONE of cicadas hangs in the air.
Julian follows August, his gaze drifting to the back of August’s grey t-shirt, stretched taut across his shoulders. The way the sunlight catches his dark hair, turning the strands to warm copper, feels like an unnecessary detail his brain shouldn’t be processing.
INT. MAIN CAMPUS BUILDING - CONTINUOUS
They enter the blessedly cooler, climate-controlled sterility of the main building. Fluorescent lights hum.
SOUND: The faint squeak of Julian’s sneakers on the polished floor.
They walk in a charged silence. Julian is hyper-aware of August’s presence beside him, a strange buzzing at the back of his skull.
As they approach the elevators, August glances back, a quick, shy look. His green eyes catch Julian’s for a fraction of a second. Julian immediately averts his gaze, staring pointedly at the illuminated ‘Up’ arrow.
INT. ELEVATOR - CONTINUOUS
The doors hiss shut, encasing them in a small, brightly lit box. The air smells of cleaning products and metal.
August presses the button for ‘3’.
The ascent is silent. Julian keeps his eyes fixed on the illuminated numbers above the door as they tick upwards: 1... 2... 3.
INT. DORMITORY HALLWAY - THIRD FLOOR - CONTINUOUS
The doors open onto a long, silent hallway. Pale yellow walls, industrial carpet, numbered doors. Mundane.
August walks two paces ahead, his shadow stretching long against the wall. The silence here feels different. Heavier.
He stops outside Room 312, fumbling with a swipe card. His fingers seem to stick to the plastic. He looks up at Julian, a small, apologetic half-smile on his lips.
AUGUST
So, uh. This is me.
His voice is quiet now, a murmur. The green in his eyes, under the muted hallway light, seems more subdued.
The air is thin and cool, holding its breath.
CLOSE ON JULIAN, standing on the threshold of Room 312. Coated in drying pasta sauce, caught on the precipice of an unwelcome connection he can no longer escape. The simple offer of a shirt now feels like something much, much more significant.