Exams.
One of the few words capable of making students everywhere uneasy.
They were the great divide—separating effort from negligence, clarity from confusion. A quiet filtration system that sorted the prepared from the unprepared without mercy. And in two weeks, that system would begin its work.
I had four courses to clear.
Four.
Not a lot of time.
Solace, I thought, staring at the ceiling, you're about to drown in textbooks.
The first rays of morning sunlight slipped through the curtains, painting faint lines across my room. I was still lying in bed, unmoving, letting the weight of the coming days settle slowly in my chest.
Studying wasn't something I hated.
But it wasn't something I loved either.
I studied because I had to.
Northvale placed enormous value on academic achievement. Results mattered here—sometimes more than anything else. After all, wasn't that the very reason I had earned my scholarship in the first place?
When I thought about Ryan, I pictured restlessness.
He was never bad at studying. In fact, when he focused, things came easily to him. But exams demanded something he struggled with—stillness. The discipline to sit with uncertainty, to grind through pages without distraction. Lately, though, I sensed a change in him. Fewer careless moments. More late nights. Perhaps it was pressure. Perhaps it was Yuna. Either way, he seemed to be trying in earnest, even if he would never admit it out loud.
Valen's situation was different.
He had always been prepared, always methodical. Exams were familiar territory for him, something to be faced with structure and routine. Yet this time, there was an added weight. His world was no longer limited to grades and schedules. Cindy existed in his thoughts now, quietly but persistently. I wondered if that made things harder for him—or easier. Maybe having someone to think about beyond himself gave his efforts more meaning.
Both of them were changing, shaped by things that had nothing to do with exams.
As for me, I remained in between—aware of their struggles, measuring my own against theirs, and realizing that no matter how prepared we were, these weeks would test more than just our academic ability.
The library had become a constant.
I went there every day, not out of habit or hope, but necessity. Exams were approaching, and the margins for distraction had narrowed to nothing. The long tables, the muted footsteps, the steady rustle of pages—everything about the place encouraged a kind of discipline I couldn't find elsewhere.
I chose the same seat each time. Near the back. Close enough to the shelves that I could reach for references without breaking focus. My notes grew thicker by the day, lines of ink layering over earlier thoughts, corrections replacing certainty. It was slow, methodical work. The kind that didn't offer satisfaction until much later.
I didn't look for her.
That fact mattered more than I expected.
The library had once been a place of quiet anticipation, where I'd half-expected something improbable to repeat itself. Now, it was simply a workspace. A controlled environment. I kept my eyes on textbooks, on formulas and arguments, on deadlines that refused to move no matter how long I stared at them.
Still, I was aware of the irony.
The same aisles. The same scent of paper and dust. The same filtered sunlight settling across the floor at the same hour every afternoon. Everything was familiar—except my intent. I wasn't here for coincidence or distraction. I was here because failure wasn't an option.
Northvale rewarded consistency, not curiosity.
So I studied.
Hours passed unnoticed. Pages turned. Coffee cooled beside my elbow. Outside, time moved on without me, but inside those walls, I stayed anchored—choosing effort over longing, preparation over possibility.
If I was going to face the exams, I would do it on my own terms.
***
Today, once again, I was at the library.
Reference books were stacked high around me, one after another, until the table felt crowded with expectations. There was no choice in the matter. Exams waited for no one, and so I read—page after page, line after line—forcing myself to absorb everything I could.
The library was supposed to be quiet. Officially, it was.
Unofficially, whispers drifted through the aisles like dust in the air.
Low voices murmured from distant tables, chairs scraped softly against the floor, pages turned just a little too loudly. Rules existed here, but not everyone respected them. Some followed them out of habit, others out of fear. And some ignored them entirely.
I didn't have the luxury to care.
My focus had to remain on the books. On the words in front of me. On the future I was trying not to fumble.
Then—
"Yeah, Mom. I miss you guys too."
The voice came from somewhere behind me. Not loud. Not disruptive.
But familiar.
Too familiar.
My fingers stilled on the page.
For a moment, my mind refused to move, as if it were afraid to acknowledge what my heart already knew. Then the realization struck—sharp and sudden, like lightning tearing through a clear sky.
That voice....
There was no chance of mistaking it.
I stood so abruptly that my chair screeched against the floor, earning a few irritated glances I didn't notice. The world narrowed, my pulse roaring in my ears as I bolted toward the sound.
I ran.
Not fast enough. Never fast enough.
I brushed past shelves, clipped the edge of a table, collided with someone muttering an annoyed apology I didn't return. None of it mattered. My only thought was getting there—now—as if delay itself were something irreversible.
It couldn't have taken more than a minute.
And then I saw her.
She stood near the far shelves, phone pressed to her ear, posture relaxed, expression soft with familiarity and warmth. Time seemed to fracture around her, stretching thin as every memory I'd tried to bury surged back all at once.
The girl who had once shaken my heart without trying.
The girl who had never truly left it.
My steps slowed. Then stopped.
I stood a few meters away, unable to move, unable to breathe properly. My chest felt tight, the storm inside me rising too fast, too violently to contain. I could only watch as she spoke, nodded, smiled faintly—completely unaware of the chaos she had reignited.
At last, the call ended.
She lowered her phone and looked up.
Her eyes met mine.
And before I could think, before doubt or reason could interfere, a single name escaped my lips—quiet, uncertain, but undeniably hers.
"Lily?"