Monday mornings were cruel by design.

Elie dragged herself to the campus makerspace, hoodie over her head, earbuds in—but no music playing. She liked the illusion of isolation. It made eavesdropping on the world feel optional.

The scent of solder and plastic greeted her like a too-familiar perfume. Calen was already there, leaned against a workbench, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He always looked like he belonged in rooms like this—half in shadow, half in thought.

Beside him stood Maris—mutual classmate, co-head of the tech club, and professional stirrer of chaos. Her energy filled the space the moment she opened her mouth.

"Oh," Maris said, spotting Elie. "Good. You're both here."

Elie raised an eyebrow as she dropped her bag on the nearest table. "Why does that sound threatening?"

Maris only grinned, then glanced between them with practiced mischief. "You've been paired for the physics symposium demo next week. High marks, high expectations. Don't mess it up."

She started to turn but paused mid-step, pivoting back toward them. "Also... are you two a thing?"

Calen blinked. Elie choked on her own breath, coughing into her sleeve.

"What?" they said in accidental unison.

Maris laughed, clearly delighted. "Okay, sure. That pause wasn't suspicious at all." She wiggled her brows, clearly enjoying herself. "Anyway—robotics, 3D model integration, plus presentation. Figure it out. Bye!"

She breezed out the door, leaving a trail of amusement and chaos in her wake.

And just like that, they were alone. Again.

Elie dared a glance at Calen. He was already looking at her. Neither said anything.

That night, they worked late. The rain had returned, drumming softly against the workshop roof. The world outside felt hushed—like time was folding in on itself.

Calen adjusted the projector lens while Elie ran code. The silence between them was familiar. Safe.

Until he said quietly, "You're different when you're around other people."

Elie didn't look up. "Everyone is."

"Yeah, but... you fold in."

She paused. "That's not a bad thing."

"I didn't say it was." Calen turned toward her. "I just... I notice."

That made her stomach twist. Not in pain. In pressure. Like something trying to surface.

"You ever feel like if people saw the real version of you, they'd just—walk away?" she asked, barely louder than the rain.

It had always been like that for her. She tried to be as social as she could, but people always said it was either too much or not enough. Eventually, she grew tired of trying to please everyone.

"I think the right ones don't," Calen said simply. "Or maybe they see it before you're ready."

Elie finally looked up.

And there it was—that quiet, steady gaze of his. Like he was looking at her, not through her. Like he was always just a little bit ahead, waiting for her to catch up.

She didn't say thank you.

Instead, she handed him the soldering iron and said, "Your turn, before I melt this whole board."

But she smiled.

And Calen saw it.

They worked tirelessly for days to perfect their Meowtrix prototype, spending more and more time together—in the quiet way they both preferred.

And now, they stood side by side in front of their creation. The little device sat on the workbench, blinking softly with colored lights, meowing in garbled tones that somehow felt... triumphant.

Elie's fingers rested lightly on the edge of the table. "It's finished," she said, almost like she didn't believe it.

Calen exhaled slowly, his hands tucked into his pockets. "Yeah. It was worth it, I think."

She turned to him, and for a moment, they both just smiled—half-amazed, half-exhausted, and entirely proud.

"Wanna grab a drink at the vendo?" Elie asked, tugging at her hoodie sleeve.

"Sure."

They stepped out of the garage, and the silvery moonlight greeted them like an old friend. The night was cool, quiet, and oddly still—like the world itself had paused to make room for them.

They both blinked upward.

"Whoa," Calen said softly. "It's already this late?"

Elie tucked her hands into her pockets. "Time's weird with you."

He looked at her, not saying anything at first. Just... looking. Then he nodded slowly. "Yeah. Same."

They walked down the path toward the vending machine in easy silence, the kind of silence that didn't need filling.

And then, lo and behold, the most dreaded presentation finally arrived.

The symposium was held in the main auditorium, which was usually reserved for performances and anxiety.

Elie stood backstage, cradling the Meowtrix prototype like it was a baby bird and not a Frankenstein of circuits and sarcasm.

"We should've rehearsed more," she mumbled.

"We did," Calen said beside her, calm as ever.

"Well, we should've rehearsed emotionally. Like, psychologically. For this." She gestured to the crowd beyond the curtain.

"You want to rehearse feelings?"

"I always rehearse feelings," she whispered.

He gave her the tiniest smile. "Then we're fine."

But she wasn't.

As soon as they stepped on stage and the spotlight hit, Elie's brain cracked open and let out a flock of crows. Noise, judgment, eyes—too many of them. Her mouth went dry. The words she'd written, practiced, even annotated... vanished.

Her hands trembled—slick with cold sweat—as the prototype wobbled uncertainly in her grip. The crowd blurred. The lights felt too hot. Her breath, too shallow.

A thousand doubts spiraled like static through her head:

I should've rehearsed more. I'm not built for this. What am I even doing here?

Speak, Elie. Just speak.

But her voice caught in her throat.

I knew this would happen. I should've stayed behind. Let Calen do the talking. He always knows what to say.

She stared down at the machine they had built together, willing it to give her courage.

And just before the silence became unbearable, Calen gently took the prototype from her.

"I'll start," he said. Not loud, not showy—just solid. Certain.

He explained their work like he always did—with clarity, purpose, and just enough dry humor to keep the audience leaning in. Then he turned to her—not prompting, not pushing, just waiting.

And she spoke.

Slowly at first. Clumsily. But then her voice found rhythm, like she was syncing to his pace.

They moved like a code loop: one speaking, one catching. A rhythm built on unspoken trust.

By the end, the Meowtrix meowed, translated, bowed, and the crowd laughed.

Applause came—not roaring, but real.

They bowed.

And Elie, eyes still wide, followed Calen offstage in a daze.

Fellow classmates and schoolmates congratulated them, but her head remained in the clouds, unable to focus on anything else. She simply followed Calen's lead, as if running on default.

Later, they were back in the shed. Just the two of them. The quiet hum of afterglow. She sighed.

Events from the presentation kept replaying on her head.

Elie sat on the workbench, legs swinging. "I froze."

Calen handed her a cup of instant hot chocolate. "You rebooted."

She snorted. "I malfunctioned and you saved me."

"No," he said. "I backed you up until you came back online. You saved yourself."

Elie looked at him for a long time.

"You always know what to say."

"No, I don't," he said. "I just say the thing that's true."

The air between them shifted.

Not in the dramatic, cinematic way. Just... deeper. Calmer. Like the ground beneath them had settled into something steadier.

She always felt a kind of stillness around Calen—like her nervous system could exhale. With him, there was no need to perform, no pressure to impress. She didn't have to over-explain her thoughts or tame the way her mind jumped from one star to the next.

Because he saw her.
And more importantly—he understood.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Calen didn't reply. Instead, he sat beside her, their shoulders almost touching.

After a moment, he added, "Your voice sounded different on stage."

"Broken?" she chuckled a little.

"No," he said. "Brave."

And she felt it again—that flicker in her chest. Not chaos. Not confusion.

Just... possibility.