I took a measured drink.“He’s entitled to privacy.”
“He’s entitled to help, too.”
I traced the moisture on the cup with a thumb.The condensation smear looked like a goal crease—semi-circle, chalky.“I am helping him, with math.”
“You’ve got the academic recovery plan,” Maya said, blowing on the steam rising from her cup.“But do you have the human plan?”
“Define human plan.”
“Actually talking to him,” she said.“You treat him like a broken equation.Maybe try treating him like a roommate.You know, ask a question that doesn’t have a numerical answer.”
Point, Chen.
I stared into the dark swirl of my black tea.I thought about earlier—Luke staring at his phone, the way his jaw had locked tight.I didn’t know the sender, but I knew the reaction.It wasn’t an academic failure; it was a personal one.
Risk assessment: Asking about his life might blur lines, but so did letting his problems become my problems.And they already were, whether I admitted it or not—the room felt off-balance when he left it unsettled.
Maya nudged my ankle with hers.“Your face is doing that linear-programming thing.”
“Meaning?”
“Optimizing a solution while pretending it’s hypothetical.”
I cleared my throat.“He has weights until six.If he circles back before team film, I intend to… expand the inquiry parameters.”
“In English?”
“I will ask him how he is.Qualitatively.”
“Revolutionary.”She poked a crumpled sugar packet at my forehead.“Proud of you, nerd.”
I salvaged dignity by flicking the packet into the trash on the first try—two-point shot.The playful clap she gave echoed louder than I liked; heads turned, but no one cared.
Time check: 5:37 p.m.Enough to grade a few more quizzes, not enough to obsess.
“I should get these done,” I said.Standing up and getting ready to head back Ridgeway.“You volunteering to double-check partial credits?”
“Tempting, but I have feminist lit at six.”She picked up her bag.“Text me once you solve for x.”
“x equals maybe.”
“x equals yes,” she called over her shoulder, disappearing into the quad.
I walked back alone now—tea cooling, and a variable I was done pretending to ignore.
Back at Ridgeway, I graded with the efficiency of a tax accountant on April fourteenth.Red pen flew.Exemplary answers got smiley slashes; sloppy ones, terse arrows.When the stack shrank to zero, my phone read 8:42.
I stuffed the papers, laptop, and emergency earplugs into my bag and made for Stony Creek.Snow squeaked under boots; vapor curled under my scarf.Every few steps I rehearsed neutral ways to open the conversation.
Hey, Luke, noticed you nearly cracked your phone in half with your quadriceps—need anything?
Too direct.
Radiator’s holding steady at sixty-eight.You look twenty degrees lower—want to calibrate?
Too weird.
By the time I hit the third-floor carpet, I’d drafted nothing usable.
