[95 Days Left to Live]
The midday sun had already begun to warm the stone benches outside the Comrce Wing as Levy and Celeste settled into their next lecture room, Room B-218.
The space was smaller than the previous one, with smooth wooden desks arranged in a semicircle instead of straight rows. Large windows frad the back wall, giving a clear view of the quad where a few students lounged under trees, sipping drinks and checking their phones.
Levy sat at her desk, hands clasped over her notebook. She glanced at her schedule again even though she knew what was next.
Business Communications.
She had skimd the course description again that morning. Sothing about interpersonal dynamics, public speaking, presentation building. It didn’t sound too bad, but nerves still crawled under her skin.
Celeste pulled a pen from her neatly zipped pouch. "You okay?"
Levy nodded. "Yeah. Just... trying to keep track of everything."
Celeste smiled faintly, her posture always confident but never stiff. "You’ll find your rhythm by the second month. This part always feels like swimming in a fog."
Other students began to trickle in—so familiar from their previous class, others new faces entirely. A tall girl with a buzz cut and oversized blazer sat two rows back, slapping her binder on the table like she ant business. A boy with wavy hair and a timid expression settled next to her, offering a hesitant smile before burying his face in a printed syllabus.
Levy’s thoughts drifted as the room filled. Her fingers absently brushed the edge of her desk, but her mind wasn’t fully here.
Mr. Varen.
There was sothing about him that still gnawed at her. She’d t plenty of instructors in orientation, even chatted with a few briefly, but him? The mont he stepped into that classroom, it felt like soone had hit a pause button in her brain.
His voice. The way he glanced at her na. That tiny pause.
She wasn’t the type to overthink people. But her gut told her this wasn’t just a coincidence.
And yet... she had no mories to anchor the feeling.
She shook it off when the new professor entered—a woman in her forties, with expressive hands and a voice like she used to work in radio. Professor Carn Salazar.
"Alright, future tycoons and negotiators," she said cheerfully as she clicked her laptop awake. "Let’s talk about the power of words. Or rather—how you all are going to ss them up before learning how to use them."
There was laughter, and the class energy shifted. Unlike Mr. Varen’s composed authority, Professor Salazar had a warmth to her that made even the shyest students seem less tense.
Levy eased into her seat, and by the ti they got into small group discussions on "non-verbal communication pitfalls," she found herself smiling again.
The class ended just before noon.
"Lunch?" Celeste asked as they stepped outside.
"I need it," Levy exhaled. "All that talk about body language made realize how much I overthink mine."
"You’re not the only one," Celeste replied. "Let’s grab Mira and Dana. I think they’re done by now."
They t back at Callia Hall’s lobby, where Dana sat scrolling through her phone and Mira was dramatically reenacting a scene from her Art Appreciation lecture using a pencil as a makeshift microphone.
"...And then he said, ’Is art rely to please the eye, or to stir the soul?’ and I almost choked on my iced tea."
Levy snorted. "How do you already have an iced tea?"
"I have connections," Mira said cryptically, jingling her keys. "Co on. I’m starving."
The four of them walked to the student canteen, nestled between the Library and Administrative Hall. It was a bright space, lined with hanging plants and a rotating nu posted on digital boards. The scent of grilled at, garlic rice, and brewed coffee filled the air.
As they slid into a booth, conversation turned to classes, professors, and the awkwardness of first impressions.
"I think I called my prof ’Ma’am’ three tis and ’Mom’ once," Dana muttered into her soup.
"At least you didn’t almost forget your na during roll call," Levy said. "I panicked for no reason when Mr. Varen called the first ti."
"Oh, the hot one in the suit?" Mira asked, chewing on a spring roll. "Saw him earlier. Gives ’dark academic’ vibes. Like he reads depressing poetry for fun."
Celeste raised an eyebrow. "That’s... oddly specific."
"You disagree?"
"No," Celeste replied. "I just didn’t think anyone besides noticed those things."
Levy stirred her drink quietly. The conversation faded to background noise for a mont. She was still thinking about that pause.
There’s that brief flicker in his expression every ti he calls out her na.
---
[94 Days Left to Live]
The next day’s morning lecture in Business Fundantals brought more case studies, more group interaction. Cassius Varen was precise as always, his presence as crisp as the suit he wore. But Levy noticed the way his eyes occasionally scanned the room—not in search of disruption, but as if... waiting for sothing.
After class, while students filed out, Levy dropped her pen and bent to retrieve it.
By the ti she stood, the room was nearly empty.
Except for Mr. Varen, still collecting his materials, and... Sophia.
She hadn’t been there yesterday.
Levy blinked.
The woman stood near the side desk, her dark outfit clean and elegant, clipboard in hand.
"You’re Levy Montclair," Sophia said plainly, eting her eyes.
Levy startled. "Uh—yes?"
Sophia’s gaze lingered. "Good engagent in class today."
"Thanks...?"
Mr. Varen looked up then. "Sophia."
She nodded slightly, and just like that, their brief exchange was over.
Levy hurried out, the hairs on the back of her neck raised.
Who was she?
The campus still buzzed with energy, with students sprawled on benches with open laptops, the hum of printers in the library, and the constant shuffle between lecture halls.
But for Levy, things were beginning to settle into a rhythm. Her schedule made more sense now, and she’d learned not to bring three pens and a highlighter to a single lecture.
Still, one thing remained as disorienting as ever: Mr. Varen.
He was never unkind, never unprofessional. If anything, he was one of the more organized instructors she’d had. His lectures were fast-paced but clear, laced with sharp observations and practical examples.
He rarely wasted ti. He rarely smiled, either—not really. Just the occasional twitch of amusent at sothing a student said, as if he found it quietly endearing but didn’t know how to show it.
But every now and then, when their eyes t during class, Levy felt it—a strange weight to his gaze, as though he wasn’t just looking at her, but looking through her. Past her.
She couldn’t explain it.
That afternoon, after a lecture about strategic positioning in saturated markets, Mr. Varen asked the class to form new groups for an impromptu discussion activity.
Levy ended up paired with Brian again, plus a new girl nad Sasha and a sleepy-looking boy who introduced himself only as "Jet."
Their task: co up with a market repositioning idea for a declining product.
As the group got to work, Levy noticed Sophia once again at the side of the room, seated in one of the spare chairs with her tablet open on her lap. She wasn’t taking notes this ti. She was watching.
Not just the class.
Her.
Levy tried to focus on Brian’s pitch about reinventing chewing gum for college students ("Brain Boost Bites," he called them), but her thoughts spun.
Who was Sophia?
And why did she look at Levy like she knew sothing Levy didn’t?
After class, Levy lingered behind to return a borrowed eraser to Jet. He had left before she could hand it to him, and she found herself once again in the near-empty classroom.
Cassius was writing sothing on the board.
She hesitated at the door.
"Sir?" she asked. Her voice ca out softer than she ant.
He turned. His sleeves were rolled up now, and for the first ti, he looked... tired. Not exhausted. Just tired in the quiet, human way a person does when they’ve carried a secret too long.
"Yes?" he said.
"I—uh, just left sothing behind."
She walked to the third row and grabbed her binder. But her eyes didn’t leave him.
He returned to erasing the board, but his voice floated over his shoulder.
"You had a good grasp of today’s topic."
Levy blinked. "Thank you."
He finished clearing the board, set the eraser down, and glanced at her again. The light from the window angled across his face now, highlighting the subtle lines at the corners of his eyes. He was younger than most professors she’d had, but there was sothing weathered about him. Seasoned.
Like soone who’d lived too many lives in silence.
"Montclair," he said, with that faint pause again. "That surna—are you from Central Novaire?"
Levy’s heart jumped. "Yeah. Born and raised."
He nodded slowly. "I see."
She tucked the binder to her chest. "Do you... know my family?"
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