May – June 1992 · UT Austin
Age 13
The campus smells like hot metal and paper. Summer isn't here yet, but the air already behaves as if it's earned a vacation. Every bench is occupied by someone half asleep over a notebook; every hallway echoes with the same phrase, almost done. Finals week feels less like a test and more like weather you survive.
I start my mornings the same way I have since January: shoes on before sunrise, a run from the dorm to the edge of the engineering quad and back. The air at six a.m. still carries a trace of spring, cool enough to trick you into thinking the day will be kind. My shoes slap rhythm on the concrete. The sound keeps my mind from drifting into equations before breakfast. Breath, stride, count, repeat. Control begins in breath.
By the time I reach the dorm again, the sun's cleared the library roof. Paige sits on the steps, cross legged, holding a Styrofoam cup that used to be coffee. Her hair's tied up, and the look on her face says she's been awake since a time not meant for students.
"You realize normal people run after sleep," she says.
"Statistically, yes," I reply, taking the cup she offers. It's empty, but the gesture counts.
She stands, stretches, and grins. "Last lecture of the semester. Dr. Li promised closure."
"Li doesn't believe in closure," I say. "Only convergence."
"See? This is why nobody talks to us before caffeine."
Dr. Li begins her final lecture with the board already half covered in symbols. She writes one word across the top in big chalk letters: Equilibrium.
"Finals," she says, "are not about knowledge. They are about stability under stress."
She underlines the word twice and looks over the class. "You've spent months accumulating motion. Now see if you can stand still without falling apart."
Paige nudges my elbow. "She's definitely talking about me."
"Or both of us," I whisper back.
Li assigns no new homework. She closes the lecture with something rare, a small smile. "If you must fail," she says, "fail gracefully. Mathematics forgives elegance."
The class actually applauds. I think it's less for the line and more for permission to breathe.
The library becomes a living organism during finals week, rows of fluorescent veins pumping caffeine and anxiety. Eugene claims a table early and defends it like sacred ground. He's brought two calculators, a walkman, and a bag of pretzels labeled critical fuel.
Paige drops her notes on the table. "Three days. Six exams. One functioning brain between us."
"Then pace yourself," I say.
"I don't do pacing. I sprint."
"That's why you trip," Eugene mutters, without looking up.
She glares at him; he smiles at his notebook. The ritual is oddly comforting.
Hours pass in a blur of graphite and fluorescent hum. We trade reference sheets, share highlighters, finish each other's half written equations. The quiet between us feels earned. By dusk, the only sounds left are pages turning and the occasional groan from Eugene when his calculator resets.
At nine, Paige leans back and rubs her eyes. "Tell me to stop."
"Stop," I say automatically.
She ignores me and keeps writing. At midnight she finally drops her pencil and stares at the ceiling. "I think my brain hit thermal overload."
"Systems fail when overheated," I say.
She squints at me. "Was that empathy or analysis?"
"Efficiency report," I answer, closing her book for her. "Go recharge."
For once, she doesn't argue.
The next morning begins the gauntlet. Calculus first. The exam room smells like pencil shavings and nervous sweat. Dr. Li walks between rows like a calm metronome. Every scratch of graphite sounds amplified. I finish early but stay seated, checking each answer twice. Outside, the light is harsh; inside, precision feels like shade.
Linguistics follows. Ambiguity questions. Visiting relatives can be annoying. Paige catches my eye across the room and mouths both, and I have to suppress a laugh.
Computer Science ends the sequence. Professor Kim hands out code listings like medical charts. I fall into rhythm, debugging line after line until logic clicks. When I look up, two hours are gone and Paige is still typing, jaw set. She turns in her paper last, mutters "done," and nearly collapses into the hallway.
Outside, the heat hits like applause. She squints against the sunlight. "I think I passed out with my eyes open halfway through."
"Efficient multitasking," I say.
She laughs, real laughter, not the tired kind. "You're impossible."
"Statistically."
That night the campus exhales. The dorm hall smells of pizza and temporary freedom. Someone down the corridor blasts music too loud for the thin walls to protest. Eugene appears at our door holding three sodas and two bags of chips like peace offerings.
"To the survivors," he says.
Paige raises an imaginary glass. "May our GPA rest in equilibrium."
We eat, talk, and laugh until fatigue wins. Eugene leaves first, mumbling about seeing colors when he blinks. Paige lingers by the doorway.
"Two months of nothing," she says. "You ever forget how to relax?"
"I make spreadsheets about it," I say. She rolls her eyes, but the smile stays.
She hesitates before leaving. "Promise you'll actually take a break?"
"I'll try," I say. It's honest enough to count.
I wake the next morning to silence. The hallway chatter has thinned, half the floor already gone for summer. My desk looks too neat. Order without purpose feels strange. I pour water into the same cup that's seen more caffeine than care this semester and sit by the window.
Paige knocks a minute later. She's in jeans and an oversized T shirt, hair loose for once. "Leaving tomorrow," she says. "You?"
"Saturday. Dad's picking me up."
She nods. "Race you to next semester."
"Define race."
She smirks. "See? You're already doing it."
We walk the campus one last time. The fountain near the student union gurgles with over chlorinated optimism. Birds dive through heat shimmer. Everything looks slightly faded, like it's waiting for rest.
At the library steps she stops. "Same time next year?"
"Same table," I say.
She grins, waves once, and walks toward the dorms. I watch until the crowd absorbs her, then turn back toward the physics building, because endings never feel real until you're alone.
Packing takes less time than I expect. Two drawers of clothes, three notebooks, a handful of equations I don't need but can't throw away. I line my pens in the desk drawer, an unnecessary ritual. The air conditioner rattles like it's trying to hold on until the last student leaves.
I sit on the bed and open my notebook. The last page waits, blank except for date and temperature. My handwriting feels steadier than when the semester began. I write:
Finals, systems under stress.
Precision requires recovery.
Even equations breathe between steps.
I underline the last sentence, close the book, and let the silence settle. Outside, thunder murmurs somewhere north of the city, the promise of a storm that may or may not arrive.
For the first time in months, I don't reach for another problem set. I stretch, switch off the light, and let the quiet stay quiet. The fan hums, the clock ticks. Summer waits at the edge of the night, and for once, I'm not in a hurry to measure it.
Thanks for reading, feel free to write a comment, leave a review, and Power Stones are always appreciated.