There are many injustices in this world.
Unpaid internships disguised as "exposure." Group projects where one person discovers a sudden, incurable illness every submission week. People who believe pineapple belongs on everything, including pasta, which is a moral failing.
But the most persistent injustice in my life has a name.
Nathaniel Rowan Clarke.
"He is infuriating," I declare for the seventh time in ten minutes.
We are seated in our usual row inside Lecture Hall 3B—ten minutes before class officially begins. I am armed with iced coffee, annotated readings tabbed in three colors, and unresolved indignation. My three best friends are armed with patience, which they require exclusively when Nathaniel Rowan Clarke becomes the subject of discussion.
The lecture hall hums with pre-class noise. Chairs scrape. Someone argues about a deadline they absolutely knew about. A girl near the aisle unwraps candy with the intensity of a competitive sport. Sunlight filters through the high windows, casting dramatic shadows that, frankly, validate my emotional state.
Allow me to introduce the witnesses to my suffering—my fellow casualties of the same academic program, because yes, unfortunately, Nathaniel and I share the same major. We are blockmates. Assigned by fate, administration, or a clerical error that I still suspect was personal.
We take the same core subjects. Sit through the same lectures. Suffer through the same deadlines. Our surnames are alphabetically close enough that we are constantly grouped together. If there is a seating chart, we are adjacent. If there is a partner system, we are sequential. If there is alphabetical ordering, destiny ensures Clarke is never far from Delaire.
Amara Lee: Same major. Same block. Born in November, which explains her strategic aggression and tendency to treat academic competition like a contact sport. Claims she "thrives under pressure" but has cried over formatting guidelines at least twice.
Jules Reed: Same major, but insists she "observes for research purposes." Keeps a color-coded planner, drinks the same caramel latte every morning, and once psychoanalyzed our entire block based on handwriting samples. Mine, she described as "dramatically controlled." I am still deciding whether that was praise.
Clara Hayes: Also same major, tragically. Romantic. Soft-hearted. Celebrates half-birthdays unironically. Has catastrophic taste in men and believes every emotionally unavailable male is "misunderstood."
I glare at Clara preemptively.
"He is not terrible," she says defensively, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "He's... calm. And kind of cute."
I nearly aspirate iced coffee.
"Cute?" I repeat, scandalized. "Clara, he corrects my grammar mid-sentence. With citations."
"That's not a crime," Jules says reasonably, not even looking up from her tablet.
"It is when I am in the middle of dismantling his argument with revolutionary fervor," I counter.
Amara leans forward, eyes gleaming. "What did he do this time? Did he breathe condescendingly?"
"He yawned," I say darkly.
Clara blinks. "That's it?"
"That's it?" I echo, offended by her lack of discernment. "I was explaining why statistical frameworks lack emotional elasticity and he yawned. Casually. As if my intellectual uprising were a bedtime podcast."
Jules hums thoughtfully. "Maybe he was tired."
"He said he slept at three," I reply.
"So he was tired," Jules concludes.
"That is not the point!"
The point—clearly—is that I was delivering brilliance.
Amara grins. "You're obsessed."
I straighten so quickly my iced coffee sloshes. "I am not obsessed. I am vigilant. There is a difference."
Clara sighs dreamily, which is already a red flag. "I think it's cute that he never gets mad at you."
I stare at her as though she has personally betrayed academic integrity.
"Clara," I say slowly, with dangerous composure, "if you ever describe Nathaniel Clarke as cute again, I will write a twelve-page paper on your lack of discernment and submit it for peer review."
"You can't help it," she insists. "He's tall, he's quiet, he has that whole mysterious academic energy going on—like he listens more than he speaks."
"He has a spreadsheet for his grocery list," I interrupt.
"That's responsible," Jules mutters.
"That's premeditated," I correct.
Amara laughs loudly enough that two freshmen glance over. "I still don't understand why he bothers you so much. He doesn't even fight back. If anything, you're the aggressor."
I pause.
Because that is precisely the issue.
"He doesn't react," I say, lowering my voice into something almost serious. "Do you understand how destabilizing it is to argue passionately with someone who responds like a composed TED Talk with footnotes?"
Jules finally looks up at me. "You like that he doesn't react."
"I do not," I say immediately.
"You escalate," she continues calmly. "He regulates. It creates tension. That's a dynamic."
"It is not a dynamic," I insist. "It is psychological warfare conducted by a man who alphabetizes his emails."
Clara smiles faintly. "He shared his notes with you last week."
"Strategic misdirection," I reply without hesitation. "He wants me comfortable. Off-guard."
Amara bursts into laughter. "You are unbelievable."
"I am observant," I correct, flipping my hair with what I consider judicial dignity.
Before Clara can romanticize his alleged emotional availability again, a voice slices cleanly through the lecture hall noise.
"Alrighty, everyone, listen up."
We all turn in unison.
Ms. Alvarez stands near the front of the hall, hands on her hips, expression bright and vaguely dangerous. She is in her mid-twenties, dresses like she curated her wardrobe from an Academia Pinterest board titled 'Power but Make It Pedagogical,' and possesses the unsettling energy of someone who enjoys watching students experience mild panic.
Her heels click against the floor as she steps forward.
"Today," she announces, "I will not be discussing anything."
A guy from the back raises his hand lazily. "Then why are you here, prof?"
Without missing a beat, she smiles sweetly. "Good question, one of the idiots at the back."
The class erupts in laughter.
She waits, perfectly composed, until the noise settles.
"I am here," she continues smoothly, "because today we will discuss your research. One of the requirements for you to graduate and not remain stupid."
I nod solemnly. Valid.
Ms. Alvarez begins pacing as she speaks, heels clicking against the tile with deliberate rhythm, like a prosecutor building suspense before delivering a verdict. "This research," she says, sweeping her gaze across the room, "will determine whether you are capable of synthesizing four years of education into something coherent, defensible, and mildly impressive—or whether you have been surviving on caffeine and delusion."
Amara leans toward me. "She's talking about you."
"I am caffeine and brilliance," I whisper back with dignity.
Ms. Alvarez continues without mercy, outlining expectations with frightening clarity—methodology rigor, proposal defense schedules, data collection timelines, analysis frameworks, formatting standards so strict they likely have constitutional amendments, and finally the phrase that chills every senior in the room: panel evaluation. The air shifts. Pens start moving faster. Someone opens their laptop like it's a defensive weapon.
Hands begin to rise.
"Can we choose any topic?"
"Within reason," she replies smoothly. "If your topic involves conspiracy theories, unverified spiritual awakenings, or your ex, reconsider."
A ripple of laughter follows.
"What if our group members don't cooperate?"
"Document everything. I enjoy academic drama when it is well-evidenced."
"How long does it have to be?"
"Long enough to prove you deserve a diploma."
She answers each question like she is sparring recreationally, parrying laziness with precision.
Meanwhile, my mind gently exits my body. Research. Proposal. Defense. Publication potential. Legacy. Possible titles begin assembling themselves in rapid succession. The Rhetorical Fragility of Modern Statistical Structures—no, too confrontational. Panelists fear confrontation. Narrative Sensitivity in Quantitative Systems—better, elegant, slightly threatening but defensible. Implications for Educational Reform and Policy Reimagination—too ambitious; I am one woman. World peace. Sandwiches.
Why sandwiches? Because research requires sustenance, sustenance requires planning, planning requires structure, and structure requires outlines. I should outline my outline. I should draft a thesis about thesis statements. I should design a conceptual map for my conceptual map.
"You good?" Jules nudges my arm.
"I am conceptualizing," I reply.
She studies my face. "You've been staring at the wall for forty seconds."
"I was envisioning frameworks."
"You blinked once."
Efficiency.
Ms. Alvarez claps sharply. "You will be grouping yourselves into three. Since there will be an odd number, one group will have two members. Choose wisely."
Choose wisely. Of course. Group dynamics are critical variables in research success—intellectual compatibility, work ethic alignment, emotional resilience under deadline stress, snack preferences during late-night revisions. These things matter.
"Sera," Amara hisses.
I wave her off. "One moment. I am designing a collaborative hierarchy in my head."
"Sera," Clara tries again, but I am busy calculating potential thematic overlaps. What if we tackle linguistic bias in algorithmic systems? What if we deconstruct academic elitism within institutional frameworks? What if we analyze cognitive response patterns in high-pressure evaluation settings?
"Sera!"
I blink.
The room is louder now—chairs scraping, bags zipping, clusters forming in real time like cells dividing under a microscope. I turn slowly and see that groups have already formed, neat trios whispering and planning with alarming efficiency.
I look at Amara. She gives me an apologetic smile. "We were calling you. You were in space."
"I was strategizing," I correct.
"You were blinking at the wall," Jules adds.
"Strategic blinking."
Clara shifts awkwardly. "We needed to secure a group before everyone filled up."
I look at them—my three best friends, aligned in solidarity—without me.
"You grouped," I say slowly.
"We thought you had a plan," Jules says carefully. "You always have a plan."
I do always have a plan. Except when I don't, which appears to be now.
"There's still someone free," Amara points out.
I follow her gaze.
He is sitting alone near the window, sunlight catching the edge of his glasses. Hands in his pockets. Posture relaxed. Not scanning the room. Not negotiating. Not rushing.
Calm. Composed. Unbothered.
Nathaniel Rowan Clarke.
Clara brightens. "See? You already know each other. It makes sense."
"Ain't no way," I whisper.
"It's efficient," Jules says.
"You understand each other academically," Amara adds.
"He's cute," Clara contributes.
I look at them, my alleged support system. "You have abandoned me."
"We tried to warn you," Amara replies. "You were drafting a thesis about condiments."
I turn back to Nathaniel. He hasn't moved, hasn't panicked, hasn't attempted to secure anyone else. He simply stands there as though this outcome was statistically predictable—like this was always inevitable.
My friends pat my shoulders in what they believe is encouragement.
"Go," Clara urges.
"It'll be fine," Jules adds.
"Or catastrophic," Amara says cheerfully. "Either way, entertaining."
I inhale deeply. I have been betrayed, abandoned, cornered by fate and administrative structure, and now I am being nudged toward the one person who refuses to acknowledge the battlefield.
This is treason. This is injustice. This is—
"Sera," Ms. Alvarez calls from the front. "Unless you plan on writing a solo masterpiece, you should choose a partner."
The entire class turns to look at me. And slowly, very slowly, my gaze meets his.
Nathaniel tilts his head slightly.
As if to say:
Well.
Here we are.
I gasp again, because there is absolutely no way—no way at all—I have been abandoned, and the only person left—
Is him.
I narrowed my eyes at Nathaniel Rowan Clarke from across the lecture hall as if prolonged eye contact alone could physically dissolve him from existence. He did not dissolve. He did not flinch. He simply stood there with his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, expression neutral—like a man waiting for public transportation, not like the last available academic partner in a high-stakes research requirement.
This was unacceptable.
I raised my hand with intention—not timidly, not casually, but with the full authority of someone prepared to negotiate her freedom. "Professor, if I may—" I began, voice clear and dignified.
Ms. Alvarez did not let me finish. "Well," she said brightly, slicing through my sentence with surgical precision, "unless you plan on writing a solo masterpiece—which you absolutely may not, because that is not allowed—you still have to choose a partner or group." The class laughed. I did not.
"But—" I tried again.
She tilted her head at me, amused. "You snooze, you lose, Ms. Delaire. And it seems Mr. Clarke is the only one available. So unless you intend to clone yourself, you have no choice. Now go to your emotionally clueless partner and make me proud."
Emotionally clueless. A flicker of vindication sparked in my chest. So she sees it too. At least one authority figure in this institution possesses observational accuracy.
I sighed theatrically, crossed my arms partly for structural support and partly for emotional reinforcement, and marched—yes, marched—toward the window where Nathaniel stood. Each step felt symbolic: a descent, a concession, a tragic turning point in the narrative of my academic independence. In my head, I narrated the moment accordingly.
Behold, Seraphina Elise Delaire, forced into partnership by fate and poor timing, betrayed by friends, cornered by structure, bound to the one man who refuses to acknowledge intellectual warfare. Tragic. Heroic. Unnecessary.
When I finally reached him, I did not sit immediately. I assessed. He looked exactly the same as he had ten minutes ago—blue-and-white hair slightly tousled, expression composed, notebook already open to a clean page with organized headings. Of course it was open. He had likely been prepared for this outcome before the professor finished her sentence.
"Don't get the wrong idea," I said before taking the seat across from him, arms still crossed, posture rigid, dignity intact. "I am not here because I wanted to be."
He nodded once. "Understood."
No defensiveness. No smugness. Just acknowledgement—which was somehow more destabilizing than a smirk.
"This is purely circumstantial," I continued. "A product of unfortunate timing and social betrayal."
"You were talking about sandwiches," he said.
I froze. "You heard that?"
"You said it out loud."
There are moments when silence is the only appropriate response. This was not one of them.
"It was a metaphor," I said quickly.
"For what?"
"For structure. Research requires layers. Bread is foundational, filling is substance, condiments are nuance."
He considered this seriously—actually seriously. "That is not entirely inaccurate."
I blinked. Why was he validating the sandwich metaphor? This was not how this interaction was supposed to proceed.
"Regardless," I said, regaining composure, "this partnership is temporary, professional, and efficient."
"Agreed."
Again, no resistance. No dramatic counterargument. Just calm alignment.
"You don't seem surprised," I observed.
"The probability was high. You were ungrouped. I was ungrouped. The class size is odd."
"You calculated this?"
"Not formally."
Of course he passively predicted this like some kind of human algorithm.
"Let me make something clear," I said, leaning forward slightly. "This does not erase our history."
"Our history?" he repeated.
"Our rivalry."
He paused briefly, then said evenly, "We are in the same program."
"That is not a denial."
"It is context."
This emotionally streamlined, grammatically vigilant, infuriatingly composed human being.
"You are aware that this project determines whether we graduate," I continued.
"Yes."
"You are aware that I intend to produce something exceptional."
"I assumed as much."
"And you are aware that I refuse to be academically overshadowed."
"You rarely are."
There was no sarcasm in his tone. It was delivered plainly, like a data point entered into a report.
"Is that supposed to be encouragement?"
"It is observation."
Observation. He observes, processes, responds.
"Fine," I said briskly. "Let's discuss logistics—topic selection, framework, division of labor."
He rotated his notebook toward me. Bullet points. Clear headings. Subsections. Potential methodologies. Timeline drafts. Risk assessments.
"You prepared?" I demanded.
"I anticipated the requirement."
"Before she finished explaining it?"
"The syllabus outlined a major research component in Week One."
I exhaled sharply. "You are insufferably prepared."
"That is not inherently negative."
I scanned the page more carefully. He had organized the outline by priority level, included contingency plans for delayed data collection, and drafted a tentative schedule accounting for exam weeks.
"If I were partnered with someone chaotic, I could dominate. If I were partnered with someone lazy, I could control. But you operate on precision."
"Yes."
Unsettling.
"I will handle theoretical framing," I declared.
"Reasonable."
"You handle statistical structuring."
"Efficient."
"We cross-review each other's sections."
"Expected."
Why was this going smoothly? Where was the friction? Where was the clash?
"You're being suspiciously agreeable," I said.
He looked up at me. "Do you prefer conflict?"
"Intellectual engagement."
"We are engaging."
He was right. Again.
I uncrossed my arms reluctantly. "For the record, I still do not like how this happened."
"You were distracted."
"I was conceptualizing."
"About sandwiches."
I pointed at him. "You will never speak of that again."
He gave the faintest hint of a smile. "Noted."
Noted—like an entry in a research log.
For a brief, deeply inconvenient moment, I realized something. He did not look triumphant. He did not look amused. He did not look like someone who had won anything. He looked steady, as if this partnership were simply the next logical step in a sequence neither of us could avoid—and that was far more destabilizing than rivalry.
I looked away first. "Fine. Let's make this team work."
He nodded. "Agreed. Now that we're here, we should maximize efficiency."
Efficiency. Of course.
I leaned forward again, tapping the edge of his notebook. "Just remember, I am not here because I wanted to be. This is circumstantial. Temporary."
"For this project," he confirmed.
I hesitated at the way he said it—not dismissive, not possessive, just factual.
For this project.
"Good," I said.
Because this is just a research partnership. Just structure. Just collaboration. Nothing more. Absolutely nothing more.
And that is how it begins.
Again.
*****
End of Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2 REPORT
Event Log:
*Betrayal by Friends: Recorded
*Forced Academic Partnership: Confirmed
*Sandwich Metaphor: Exposed
*Efficiency Protocol: Activated