The Westbridge cafeteria was less a dining hall and more a sprawling social ecosystem, meticulously mapped by every student. The sunlight streamed through the vaulted glass ceiling, illuminating a scene of controlled chaos. On one side, near the wall of windows overlooking the quad, was the territory of the athletes—a loud, boisterous constellation of team jackets and muscular camaraderie. In the center, the various clubs and societies staked their claims, their tables buzzing with the specific energy of debate team arguments or theater kids running lines. And then, tucked in a far corner with the best vantage point to see and be seen, was the table everyone knew.
The Royal Table.
It wasn't officially called that, of course. But the name fit. And today, Adrian Vale held court there.
Amelia saw him the moment she walked in, tray in hand. He was leaning back in his chair, one arm slung casually over the back of the chair next to him, which was occupied by a stunning girl with sheet-straight, platinum blonde hair. Lillian Cross. Amelia recognized her from campus fashion blogs. Adrian was saying something, a lazy smile on his face, and the entire table—a collection of the impossibly beautiful and the obscenely wealthy—erupted in laughter. It was a scene from a movie, a perfect, polished snapshot of a life Amelia could barely comprehend.
She quickly looked away, a familiar, defensive wall going up. See? she told herself. He's exactly who you thought he was.
"Reed! Over here!"
Ethan's voice was a welcome anchor. She spotted him waving from a small, round table tucked between a pillar and the salad bar—a strategic spot that was neither in the thick of things nor completely isolated. It was Ethan's usual spot.
"Made it out alive?" he asked as she slid into the seat opposite him.
"Barely," she sighed, poking at her chicken pasta. "Professor Evans is a tyrant. The reading list is a mile long."
"Welcome to the 200-level," Ethan said with a sympathetic grin. "It's where they separate the serious students from the… well, from them." He nodded subtly towards Adrian's table.
Amelia followed his gaze. Lillian was now feeding Adrian a french fry, her laugh a tinkling, high-pitched sound that carried across the cafeteria. Adrian accepted it with that same infuriating smirk.
"Don't," Amelia said, turning her attention firmly back to her food. "They're not even worth the mental energy."
"Hey, I'm just observing the wildlife," Ethan defended himself, holding up his hands. "It's like a nature documentary. 'Observe the privileged young male in his natural habitat, surrounded by his sycophants.'"
Amelia couldn't help but laugh. "You're terrible."
"It's a gift." He took a bite of his sandwich. "So, besides the tyrannical professor and the permanent proximity to the campus king, how was the class itself? The material, I mean."
And just like that, Ethan pulled her back into her world. They fell into an easy debate about the merits of the Brontë sisters versus Jane Austen, a conversation that was comfortable, intellectually stimulating, and blessedly free of the social tension that seemed to radiate from the other side of the room. This was what she needed. This was real.
But the universe, it seemed, was not done with its social experiments.
About ten minutes later, as Amelia was gathering her trash onto her tray, a shadow fell over their table. She looked up, and her breath hitched.
Adrian Vale was standing there, his own empty tray in hand. He had broken away from his royal court.
"Amelia," he said, his tone neutral.
"Adrian," she replied, matching his tone. She could feel Ethan's curious gaze shifting between them.
Adrian's eyes flicked to Ethan, then back to her. There was a brief, awkward silence. He seemed to be waiting for an introduction.
Amelia, feeling stubborn, didn't offer one.
It was Ethan who broke the standoff, ever the diplomat. "Hey, man. Ethan. History major." He didn't stand up, but he gave a friendly nod.
"Adrian," he said, returning the nod. His attention returned to Amelia. "I was going over the syllabus for Evans's class. That first essay on narrative framing looks brutal. I was thinking of putting a study group together."
The offer hung in the air, unexpected and loaded. Was this a genuine academic overture? Or was it something else? A way to maintain the strange connection she could feel him probing at?
Amelia glanced past him towards his table. Lillian was watching them, her expression unreadable from this distance, but her posture was rigid.
"I work most evenings," Amelia said, her voice coming out a little too clipped. "At the Grounds Keep. The coffee shop."
A flicker of something—annoyance? understanding?—crossed his face. "Right. The toil." He said it without the bite from yesterday, more as a simple statement of fact. "Well, the offer stands. If you change your mind."
He didn't wait for a reply. With a final, inscrutable look, he turned and walked away, depositing his tray on the conveyor belt and striding out of the cafeteria without a backward glance at his friends.
The air at Amelia and Ethan's table felt suddenly thick.
"So," Ethan said slowly, drawing out the word. "That was… interesting."
"He was just being polite," Amelia said, a little too quickly.
"Was he?" Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looked like the king came down from his throne to personally invite a commoner to a royal study session. That's not polite. That's… significant."
"Don't be dramatic." Amelia stood up, grabbing her tray. "He probably just wants someone to do all the work for him."
Ethan stood with her, a thoughtful expression on his face as they walked towards the tray return. "You know, for someone who insists he's just an infuriating jerk, you sure get flustered every time his name comes up."
"I do not get flustered."
"You're flustered right now," he said, a gentle tease in his voice.
She was. Her heart was still beating a little too fast. The brief interaction had felt like a test, and she wasn't sure if she'd passed or failed. By refusing his offer, had she proven her independence? Or had she just been rude, confirming his belief that she was prickly and difficult?
As they left the cafeteria, she replayed the moment. The way he'd stood there, separate from his usual crowd. The directness of his offer. The lack of the usual smirk.
Later that night, curled on her dorm bed with a copy of Jane Eyre, her phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: It's Adrian. Got your number from the class roster. The offer for the study group is real. Let me know.
She stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. The Cafeteria Divide wasn't just about physical space; it was a chasm of experience, of expectation, of life itself. He was on one side. She was firmly on the other.
And yet, he kept crossing over.
She typed out a simple reply, her decision made for now.
Amelia: Noted. Thanks.
She didn't say yes. She didn't say no. She left it hanging, a single word in the space between their two worlds. It was the only power she had, and for the moment, it felt like enough.