Tuesday morning.
Or, more accurately—the beginning of the end.
Finals. First semester. The beginning of the stretch every professor had been warning us about since orientation—like some doomsday prophecy that wasn't one cataclysmic event, but a slow grind stretched over days. Paper after paper, test after test. A marathon, not a sprint.
Val and I dragged ourselves out of bed earlier than usual, groggy but still managing the usual routine: brush, shower, dress, argue briefly about whether my tie was crooked (it was), and then head to campus.
By the time we reached our lecture hall, the atmosphere was already different. Quieter. More tense. Students hunched over notes in the hallway, muttering formulas, dates, and last-minute definitions like prayers.
We found our seats, and I started arranging my pens, calculator, ID card—the essentials. Val, meanwhile, dug into her bag like she was looking for treasure.
