Chairs scrape. Voices rise. All around me, people are already forming clusters—heads bent together, laughing, talking fast, trading numbers. Easy, effortless.
I stay seated.
I pull my notebook into my lap, pretending to check a note while my eyes scan the room.
There’s a guy from Environmental Engineering I recognize from a seminar last year—sharp, organized, good on his feet. He’s already deep in conversation with two girls, gesturing toward something on his phone. Across the aisle, a girl from Sustainable Energy is laughing with a group, her binder tucked under one arm like she doesn’t even need it. I watched her give a talk once about solar integration. She got a standing ovation.
My stomach twists.
I shift my gaze to the corner of the page, where I’ve written and rewritten the same sentence twice. Hi, I’m looking for a partner for the Future Innovators competition...
Fuck. This is going to be impossible. I don’t doubt my abilities. I know I might not be the smartest, but I’ll work every hour to make this project work. Charm wins. I don’t have that. So I have to be better — smarter, sharper, faster.
A gust of laughter echoes near the door. Someone fist-bumps someone else. Plans are already being made. Teams are forming like puzzle pieces snapping into place, like everyone got the memo months ago, and I just wandered in by accident.
I gather my things slowly, trying to look calm. Unbothered. Like I’m just... thinking.
But the truth buzzes low in my chest, irritating and persistent.
I can’t afford to miss this.
Not because it’ll look good on a resumé. Not because I’m trying to win some campus clout contest. Because this is the plan. The whole plan. The only plan.
And now I have to convince someone to bet on me, without sounding like I’m begging. Or sounding like I have everything to prove, even though I do.
2
DELILAH
Ikick my apartment door shut with my foot, juggling my laptop, my coffee, and a bag of groceries as I shuffle inside.
Technically, this place is an apartment.
Realistically, it’s a glorified storage closet above a store that sells overpriced crystals and organic incense. My landlord calls it “a charming artist’s loft”—which is apparently code for one window, terrible heating, and a kitchen the size of a shoebox.
But it’s mine.
I drop everything onto my tiny two-seater table and peel off my jacket, sighing when the heat from the radiators doesn’t kick in.
Of course.
At this point, I should just accept that my apartment is a glorified walk-in freezer from October to April.
I grab my laptop and settle onto the couch which, if I’m being honest, is also my bed half the time, as I like to fall asleep to movies. I check my email to see if the list has come through of participants.
Most of them are spam, marketing emails, or passive-aggressive reminders from my landlord about “keeping the hallway clear of unwanted items and human vomit.”
My nose wrinkles. Gross.
I grab my phone and text Lacey. Seeing her this morning made me realize how much I miss her. I haven’t seen her much since camp ended over the summer—between shifts at the bookshop and pre-term prep, I’ve been MIA. Also admittedly, I’m just not the best at reaching out. But Lacey was there the night I hit “submit” on my application. We opened a bottle of wine and danced around her apartment like idiots.
The meeting was good…we’re refurbishing the toilet block lol
Lacey
Ew? The old one?
ANYWAY. I’M CALLING YOU. I want to make plans. Answer please!!!
