“Oh shit, sorry!” A voice calls out. “Didn't know anyone was still here.”
I look up to see a girl with dark curly hair and tortoiseshellglasses, arms laden with what looks like half a craft store.
“It's fine,” I mutter, turning back to my model.Please take the hint. Please go somewhere else.
Instead of picking up on my obvious desire to be left alone, she walks over and sets her supplies on the table next to mine. Great.
“You're Delilah, right? You work at Elliot's Books & Oddities? And you're in Civic Architecture?”
I blink, surprised she knows that much about me. “Yeah.”
“I'm good with faces, I’m Trixie,” she says, flashing a bright smile. “I sit in the back row. Your presentation—the one with the modern museum that reflected historical context? It was seriously impressive.”
“Thanks,” I say, unsure what else to add. I don't remember seeing her before, but then again, I rarely look up from my notes during class. I definitely don't pay attention to who's sitting where.
She begins unpacking her materials—cardboard, X-Acto knives, a worn sketchpad, and a thermos that smells like it could power a small city. The clatter of her supplies makes me grip my tweezers tighter.
“I've been meaning to ask,” she continues, oblivious to my discomfort, “how you got that layered contour effect on your renderings. It gave the forms so much dimension—it really stood out.”
I hesitate. Normally, I'd brush it off with a vague answer and get back to work. I don't share techniques—they'remine, hard-earned through late nights and trial and error. But her curiosity feels genuine, with none of the competitive edge I'm used to from classmates. Still, there's a pause before I answer.
“Uh... it's something I put together with a few layered masks and adjustments,” I say. “Kind of a custom technique.”
“Could you maybe show me sometime?” she asks, a little too quickly. Then, noticing my pause, she backtracks. “Only if you want to! It's totally okay if not.”
I glance over. She's looking away now, suddenly busying herself with lining up her cutting tools. She's already regretting asking, I can tell.
“No, it's... sure,” I say, surprising myself. “I can show you sometime.”
Her eyes flicker back to me, hopeful but still guarded. “Cool. Only if you're up for it, though. No pressure.”
I just nod, not trusting myself to say more. Why did I agree to that?
And then the door swings open, and a tall guy with glasses rushes in, looking slightly frazzled.
“Trix, did you bring the 1:50 scale materials? I forgot mine and—” he stops, noticing me. “Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt.”
“Jonathan, this is Delilah,” Trixie says. “The one whose museum design I was telling you about.”
Great. They've beentalkingabout me. I shift uncomfortably.
He adjusts his glasses, recognition dawning. “Right! Sounded very cool. I'd love to see it sometime.”
I'm not used to this—people noticing my work, remembering it, praising it without wanting something in return. My guard goes up automatically.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling awkward under their attention. “It's just a concept so far.”
“Sometimes concepts are where the real innovation happens,” Jonathan says, setting down his backpack. “Before reality steps in and ruins everything.” His dry delivery makes it clear he's speaking from experience.
Despite myself, I laugh. “You sound like my professor.”
“Highest compliment,” he says with a small smile. “Anyway, don't let us distract you. We've got our own disaster to finish for the FIDIC competition.” He gestures to Trixie's pile of supplies.
I freeze at the mention of FIDIC. They'recompetitors? My mind immediately shifts into strategic mode, wondering how much I should say, if anything.
I nod and turn back to my model, but somehow the silence that follows doesn't feel isolating anymore. Just three people working, the occasional murmur of consultation between them, the soft scratching of pencils and cutting of materials.
It's... nice. In a weird way.
