So she’d spent another sleepless night brainstorming possible essay topics:How my love of the cosmos has fostered my love of the unknown(too broad);How building a telescope from scratch helped me understand my place in the greater universe(too cheesy and an obvious exaggeration). None of it felt right.
At this point, she might as well submit a single page that just said, “MIT sucks” and hope for the best.
“Well, I’m happy to hear it,” Mr. Krug had said. “And I know we’re going to hear good news soon. I expect a planet named after me when you make it big!”
Then he’d left, heading back into the classroom while Riya had stood there, the weight of his words pressing against her ribs.
“Riya?”
Mel’s voice pulled her out of the mire of her thoughts.
She blinked, then took a careful breath.
“Yeah. I’ll—I’ll figure it out.”
She stared down at her lunch: a crustless turkey-and-cheese sandwich cut into perfect rectangles and a Gala apple. The same lunch she’d eaten almost every day since freshman year.
Mel’s gentle, knowing stare lingered on the dark circles beneath Riya’s eyes. She reached over and patted Riya’s hand.
“I know you won’t need it since it’syouwe’re talking about here—but if there’s a chance I can help with the essay or anything, let me know, okay? Don’t be afraid to lean on me.”
Riya nodded. She wanted to mean it.
But her hand slipped away anyway. Like muscle memory.
“Sure,” she said, and took another bite of her bland sandwich.
The rest of the day whizzed by.
Between classes, hallways jittered with talk of the past weekend—shows watched and games played, of people seen, work unfinished.
Riya narrowly avoided the Yearbook Committee, already harassing students with their cameras and order forms despite it only being a month into the school year. When they spotted her, they chased her down the hall begging to know if Student Council had picked a prom theme yet, until she shot them a murderous look.
It didn’t help that all day her body had felt like it was moving through water. Her head buzzed with a low, inexplicable hum, too present to ignore.
After posting the sign-up sheet for the Fall Talent Show, Riya made her way to her locker, where Mel would no doubt be waiting, ready to report the details of her day.
Instead, she found Kian. Leaning casually against her locker, black beanie pulled low, hands (concerningly) hidden behind his back.
Riya’s pulse ticked as she cycled through possible explanations. Was he here to gloat? To fight her? No sign he was carrying a duel sword, at least.
Unless: What if he was here to give another halfhearted apology?
Somehow, she’d prefer the duel.
She gripped her Astronomy textbook tighter as students gave Kian a wide berth, sneaking wary glances.
In her experience, annoying people were best dealt with like last-minute schedule changes or bad zits: head-on and with head high.
Steeling herself, she approached. “Can I help you?”
It wasn’t really a question.
Kian looked up, eyes unfocused—then brightened.
“Yes,” he said, flashing a grin. “Yes, you absolutely can.”
It was surreal, facing the boy who’d barged into her mind like he’d owned the place. Worse was the tension blooming beneath her ribs—that storm-quiet stillness she always felt before a spell snapped. Like even standing near him was tugging at her magic.
