The first day back felt worse than I expected.

Maybe because this wasn’t supposed to happen. A year ago, the three of us should have been walking out of those gates with degrees in our hands. Instead, we were walking back in.

Again.

The morning air was cool, biting through my jacket as I drove toward Northbridge Institute of Technology. The weight of the gap year hung heavily over us. Jason sat behind me on the pillion seat of the bike, his back rigid, while Sam followed on his own scooter, riding a few meters back.

Normally, one of us would be talking—complaining about traffic, joking about professors, or making lunch plans. Today, nobody had much to say. The closer we got to campus, the quieter we became.

Finally, Sam pulled his scooter alongside mine at a red light.

“There’s still time to turn around, you know,” Sam muttered, cutting his engine. “I can think of at least three arcades open right now.”

Jason let out a dry, humorless laugh from behind me. “We’ve already left the neighborhood, Sam. Give it up.”

“We can still make a U-turn,” Sam insisted, looking at me. “Come on, Ethan. Put your blinker on.”

“We’re literally five minutes away,” I said, tightening my grip on the handlebars.

Sam groaned dramatically, slumping over his scooter. “God, I hate this.”

The signal turned green, and we started moving again.

None of us wanted to admit it, but walking into college a year behind everyone else felt incredibly embarrassing. Maybe not to other people, but definitely to us.

Jason had spent his gap year locked in his room, studying quietly and clearing his backlogs. Sam still had two left to clear this semester—a ticking time bomb he preferred to ignore. My situation, though, was different.

Whenever people from my neighborhood asked, I gave a short, rehearsed answer.

Just a gap year. Family issues.

That was all. Most people didn’t ask for details after that, picking up on the wall I built around it. I preferred it that way. The actual details weren’t something I enjoyed thinking about, let alone explaining.

Soon, the rusted iron gates of the college appeared. For a split second, my foot hovered over the brake. Maybe Sam is right. Maybe I should just turn around. Not because I wanted to quit, but because I didn’t want to deal with the suffocating awkwardness waiting inside.

Unfortunately, adulthood has a terrible habit of forcing you to do things you desperately want to avoid. So, we parked in the gravel lot and began the long walk toward the main building.

Students filled every corner of the campus. Groups gathered under the old banyan trees, laughing loudly. Unlike our first year where everyone scrambled to meet people, these groups were already set. They were hugging, high-fiving, and talking about their vacations like old friends who hadn’t missed a beat.

Every single face belonged to a tight-knit community. And we were entirely outside of it.

It felt like we had accidentally crashed someone else’s private reunion.

Sam looked around, his nose wrinkling. “Look at all these kids. They look like they’ve been running this campus since day one.”

“They’re the junior batch, Sam,” Jason said matter-of-factly, adjusting his backpack. “They’ve been together for two years. They already know how the system works.”

“Yeah, thanks for reminding me,” Sam muttered. “Somehow, that makes it ten times worse.”

A few students standing near the notice board glanced toward us as we walked past. Panic flared in my chest, and I immediately looked down, matching my pace to my shoes.

“Relax,” Jason said quietly, noticing my rigid shoulders. “Nobody’s looking at us, Ethan. Nobody cares.”

Easy for him to say. Jason looked at the world through logic; I looked at it through a magnifying glass.

My overthinking brain was convinced everyone cared. Every random glance felt deeply personal. Every quiet whisper sounded suspicious. Every burst of laughter felt directly aimed at the three guys who couldn’t graduate on time.

Rationally, I knew it wasn’t true. People were too busy catching up with their friends to notice us. But knowing a fact in your head and believing it in your gut are two completely different things.

We finally entered the classroom. Rows of wooden desks waited, but people were already claiming seats next to their usual partners. Loud banter and inside jokes flew across the room.

Without a word, the three of us automatically headed straight toward the back row.

The safest place in any classroom. Far from the whiteboard. Far from the professor’s line of sight. Far from the established social circles.

Perfect for someone like me.

I dropped my heavy bag and sank into the corner chair. Jason took the seat right next to me, pulling out a neat notebook. Sam stretched in his chair, making the wood creak loudly.

“One more year,” Sam sighed, staring up at the lazy ceiling fan. “Just looking at that whiteboard gives me a headache.”

“You haven’t even survived the first ten minutes of day one,” Jason remarked.

“Exactly,” Sam said, cracking his knuckles. “That’s why I’m getting my complaining out of the way now.”

The room was a single, functioning ecosystem, and the three of us sat in the back corner like survivors from a completely different timeline. Everyone else was continuing a story they started two years ago. We were just repeating a script we already knew by heart.

Sensing the heavy atmosphere, Sam pulled out his phone. “Hey. Want to play a quick puzzle round before the professor gets here?”

I nodded immediately. Anything to stop my brain from spiraling.

Jason shook his head, looking at the screen. “You two are completely hopeless, you know that?”

“You say that every year, Jase,” Sam grinned.

The game loaded, and for the next few minutes, the crowded classroom faded into the background. There was only the bright screen, the ticking timer, and my own panicked decisions under pressure.

Exactly three minutes later, a flashing Game Over screen popped up. I was eliminated. Again.

Sam burst out laughing. “Dude, you’re actually getting worse at this. How is that even possible?”

“I don’t know,” I sighed, rubbing my eyes. “Honestly, I didn’t think it was mathematically possible to decline this fast.”

Jason glanced over, his pen hovering. “Have either of you considered, even for a split second, actually paying attention to the syllabus today?”

Sam and I looked at each other, then back at Jason. “No,” we said in unison.

Jason let out a soft huff. “Fair enough.”

While waiting for Sam to reset the lobby, I leaned back and let my eyes wander across the classroom. Mostly because I was bored.

Mostly.

Students a few rows ahead were leaning over desks, laughing easily and trading stories. It was a completely seamless, familiar environment for them.

Then, my attention stopped.

A girl was sitting a few rows away, right near the large glass window. She was surrounded by the same familiar energy as everyone else, sitting with two other girls. She wasn’t talking much—mostly just listening. Every now and then, she would nod or smile at something they said.

Her smile wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic or forced to match the high energy of the room. It was just calm. Natural.

She looks completely at peace with being here, I thought, watching the way the morning sunlight caught the edge of her desk.

For some strange reason, I found myself smiling a little bit too. Maybe because the intense, loud familiarity of the room looked intimidating to me. Maybe because her calm energy made the whole environment feel a little less hostile.

The moment lasted only a few seconds.

The sharp chime of Sam’s phone broke my concentration as the next round started. He shoved the device right into my hands, blocking my view.

“Focus, Ethan. You’re dragging my win-rate down.”

I shook myself out of it and looked back down at the glowing screen. The game resumed, the professor walked in, and the first lecture of our repeat year officially started.

By the time the final bell rang that afternoon, the stress of the day had taken over, and I had completely forgotten about that brief, quiet moment by the window.

At least, that’s what I told myself.