The strange thing wasn’t that I noticed Ava anymore. The truly terrifying part was that I actually started showing up.

For the first few months of our repeat year, my college attendance had been more of a vague suggestion than a strict requirement. Some days I went, some days I didn’t. Sometimes Jason would use cold logic to convince us to move, and sometimes Sam would weave a beautiful argument about why sleeping in was a better investment of our time. Most of the time, none of us cared enough to pull the trigger on a real debate.

Then something changed. It didn’t happen overnight, but rather little by little, one skipped lecture at a time. I found myself saying yes to the morning commute far more often.

“Wait, you’re actually already on your bike?” Sam asked over the phone one morning, his voice thick with sleep and genuine confusion.

“Yeah. I’m leaving in two minutes,” I replied, adjusting my helmet.

“Why? You usually spend at least twenty minutes in the group chat explaining the mathematical probability of the professor skipping class anyway.”

“I can still do that if you want to delay us.”

“Please don’t,” Sam groaned. “If you’re going, it means Jason is going to make me go too.”

When we arrived, Jason was already waiting by the stairs, laughing quietly at the look of absolute betrayal on Sam’s face. For once, we actually made it into the classroom before the morning lecture started.

The room was only half full, the usual morning chatter echoing off the high ceiling as students slowly trickled in. I sat down in our designated back-row corner and opened my phone, pretending to be deeply engrossed in a random article.

A few minutes later, the front door swung open. Ava entered the room alongside two of her friends, her shoulder bag slung casually over one arm.

I watched her for a fraction of a second, my eyes automatically tracking her until she took her usual seat by the window. I quickly looked away, but the damage was already done. In that quiet, brief moment, I finally understood the real reason why my mornings had become so compliant lately.

The realization lasted for about three seconds. Then, my defense mechanisms kicked into overdrive and I forcefully rejected it.

No. That’s completely ridiculous. I’m just being more responsible this year. I’m a senior who finally understands the value of an education. It sounded much better when I put it that way. It felt safer.

As the weeks rolled on, the semester continued its relentless march. Assignments piled up on our desks in terrifying stacks, and practical labs became much more frequent. The professors took every single opportunity to remind us that this was our final year, delivering the warning with a heavy, dramatic gravity. It was a funny thing to hear, as if the three of us could somehow forget that we were living through our final year for the second time.

One warm afternoon, the professor was late, and Jason was talking animatedly about his post-graduation plans. Sam was staring at his desk, doing an impressive job of pretending to listen.

I was doing neither.

My attention had seamlessly drifted across the classroom. A few rows ahead, Ava was leaning over her desk, trying to explain a complex programming logic to another student. The guy looked entirely lost. Ava paused, looked down at her own scribbled notes, and then her shoulders slumped as a look of shared confusion crossed her face.

A second later, both of them broke into a sudden, quiet laugh. Whatever she had been trying to explain had clearly backfired, and she reached into her pocket, pulling out her silver multi-colored pen to lightheartedly tap the side of her temple.

Without realizing it, a small smile formed on my face.

Then, a plastic ballpoint pen smacked me right in the center of my chest.

“Ow,” I muttered, looking down as the pen rolled into my lap. I snapped my head back to the desk. “What was that for?”

“You’re not listening to a single word I’m saying,” Jason said, his arms crossed as he leaned against the wooden bench.

“I am listening.”

“Alright. What did I just say about the upcoming campus placements?”

I opened my mouth to answer, thought for a long, agonizing moment, and realized my mind was an absolute vacuum. I had absolutely no idea.

Sam nearly fell out of his chair, burying his face in his arms to muffle his explosive laughter. “He’s gone, Jase. He’s completely checked out.”

“I’m right here,” I mumbled, my cheeks burning.

“No,” Sam chuckled, finally looking up with a wicked glint in his eye. “Physically, your body is sitting in this chair. Mentally, you’re somewhere else entirely.”

Jason didn’t laugh. Instead, his sharp eyes scanned the front rows of the classroom, tracking the exact trajectory of where my gaze had been fixed just a moment ago. He looked at the window row, then looked back at my red face, and then glanced back at the front row one more time.

The logical gears in his brain were turning, and I instantly knew the exact conclusion he was reaching.

“Don’t,” I warned him quietly.

“I didn’t say a single word, Ethan,” Jason replied smoothly.

“You were definitely about to.”

A slow, knowing smile appeared on Jason’s face. Coming from someone who usually treated life like a series of data structures, that expression was somehow far more terrifying than any of Sam’s relentless teasing.

Thankfully, the personal drama was cut short a few weeks later when the first-semester exams finally arrived.

Suddenly, the easygoing atmosphere of the campus vanished, replaced by an intense, collective panic. Nobody cared about social circles or casual banter anymore; the only thing that mattered was survival. Even Sam looked visibly worried, carrying a crumpled stack of reference sheets everywhere he went—a sight that was honestly more terrifying than the exams themselves.

The entire campus felt entirely different. It was quieter, heavier, and charged with nervous energy. Classrooms were packed with students whispering formulas under their breath, and the library was so crowded people were sitting on the stairwells just to read. For the first time in months, nobody talked about skipping or attendance percentages. The only metric that existed was the passing mark.

The day of the first paper arrived faster than I wanted it to. My hands felt stiff as I entered the massive examination hall, weaving through the rows of isolated desks until I found my assigned seat number.

I sat down, dropped my ID card on the wooden surface, and let out a shaky breath. To calm my nerves, I leaned back and casually looked around the room.

And there she was.

Sitting exactly two rows directly behind me, Ava was calmly organizing her station, clipping her hall ticket to the edge of her clipboard.

I snapped my head forward before she could look up and notice me staring. I stared intensely at the blank chalkboard at the front of the room, but despite the cold weight of the exam hanging over my head, a stupid, involuntary smile crept onto my face.

Why am I like this? I thought, letting out a silent, self-deprecating laugh at my own absurdity. The paper hasn’t even been handed out yet and I’m smiling in an exam hall.

A sharp bell rang through the corridors, and the invigilator began walking down the aisles, handing out the heavy answer sheets. I took a deep breath, gripped my pen, and focused on the desk in front of me. For the next three hours, my real world completely faded away, and my only immediate problem became surviving the exam.