Solan wasn’t sure when the wandering had started—sometime around dusk, maybe earlier. The sky had been pale then, washed thin like a sheet left too long in the sun. Now it was full dark, warm in the way September nights pretended they’d never heard of winter.
He’d walked the quad twice. Sat by the lake until the mosquitoes got brave. Finished his assignments in a library carrel so small it felt like a coffin with fluorescent lighting. He’d even tried the student commons, but the noise there only made him aware of how quiet he felt inside.
And still he wasn't ready to go back to his room. Or rather, he wasn’t ready to risk going back too soon .
He rubbed at his face, felt salt from dried sweat. His shirt clung lightly to his back. The lamps hummed overhead, pools of soft yellow blooming at even intervals across the paths. The whole campus seemed to glow from its own memory of daylight.
He turned down a side path, one he didn’t normally take. The stone underfoot was warm. Somewhere, someone was laughing loudly—close enough to exist, far enough not to matter.
He really, really wanted his bed. But three hours ago—maybe more—Matt had looked at him with the frantic focus of a man preparing for a final exam in romance. That was the real reason he was out here.
He could still see the scene when he closed his eyes:
Matt moving around their dorm room like a wedding planner on a deadline—flowers stolen from the campus garden, a suspiciously clean white tablecloth, half a bottle of red wine “borrowed” from the dining hall. “It’s part of the dining hall hospitality,” Matt had declared, with the sincerity of someone lying to himself more than anyone else.
Solan had watched him fuss over the placement of two mismatched cups, adjusting them like they were heirloom china. In that moment, Solan knew there was no universe where he could stay. Matt had practically shoved him out the door anyway. “Please, bro. I need the space. She’s from the Art Department—everything’s about atmosphere.”
The door had closed with ridiculous finality.
And now Solan was here, drifting through the warmth and the dark, long after the joke had stopped being funny.
He rounded a corner and realized, belatedly, that he’d walked into the wrong residential cluster. None of the windows looked familiar. The balconies were shaped differently—more rounded, less gothic—and someone had hung string lights across the courtyard like it was a summer festival.
Solan slowed, unsure whether to turn back or pretend he meant to be here. That’s when he saw her.
A girl sat on the front stoop of the hall, elbows on her knees, face buried in the space between them. Her hair spilled forward like she was trying to hide inside it. From a distance, she looked… tired. Not sad, exactly. Just worn down in a way the warm night couldn’t fix. It took him a moment to recognize her.
Clara Vale.
He stopped a few steps away, unsure if approaching would make things worse. She looked like someone holding herself together by not moving at all. For a second—one shameful, uninvited second—Solan hoped she’d just broken up with her boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Something normal. Something survivable. He hated himself for thinking that.
He was about to say her name, quietly, when she lifted her head. Her face was pale in the courtyard light, cheeks flushed from heat or something else. She blinked up at him like she’d sensed him before she heard him.
“Evening, new kid,” she said, voice a little rough around the edges. “Tell me you at least have gum. Or anything edible.”
The question hit him sideways. “…No,” he said. Then remembered basic human behavior. “Sorry, Hi.” Brilliant, he told himself. Truly elite social performance.
Clara stared at him for a beat, then exhaled through her nose—half a laugh, half a sigh. She pushed her hair back, straightening only enough to look functional. “I’m gonna need a burger before I pass out,” she announced, like this was a medical diagnosis. “You coming?”
Solan wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t anything, really—just tired, lost, and suddenly aware of how close she was.
“Yes,” he said. Then, realizing how quickly it came out, added, “I mean—sure.”
He hoped she didn’t notice.
Clara stood, brushing dirt from her shorts. “Great. I know a place.” She stood up and started walking without waiting for confirmation. Solan fell into step beside her, and for the first time that night, his wandering had direction.
She didn’t say anything, and for a while neither did he. The silence wasn’t hostile—just full, like she’d already forgotten he was there and was letting him exist beside her anyway.
Solan tried to think of something normal to say. Anything.
“So, um… what’s your major?” The words fell out of him like trash slipping from a torn bag. Worst dialogue any college student has ever produced. Matt had warned him: never ask someone’s major—it’s the mating call of the socially bankrupt.
Clara didn’t seem offended. Just answered flatly, “Cognitive Neuroscience.”
“Cool,” Solan said, because his brain was currently on fire. “Sounds… difficult.”
“It’s fine.” She shrugged. “Mostly annoying.” After a beat she added, “Humans are complicated anyway. We’re just trying to figure out why we say things.”
She glanced at him briefly. “You’d be surprised how much language shapes what we think.”
“Oh,” he said. “Awesome.” They walked a few more steps. The path curved under a line of warm courtyard lamps.
Solan kicked a small pebble ahead of him. “You said language shapes judgment.”
“Yeah.”
“So if someone moves somewhere else…” He hesitated. “Does the place change them? Completely?”
Clara thought about that for a moment. “It can,” she said. “Usually it starts with how you talk.” Another step. “Then it changes how you react.”
He opened his mouth again, disastrously: “So…any other languages do you guys study besides English?”
“We don’t study language,” Clara said. “We study how language shapes the mind. But I’m learning Chinese.”
“Chinese? Cool…” He felt his mouth moving faster than his judgment. “You met me at a very Chinese—” He regretted it instantly. Clara had zero reaction. Not even a blink. She just kept walking. Solan wished the ground would open and swallow him whole. Or at least trip him hard enough to justify a concussion.
They reached the edge of the quad, where the path sloped downhill toward a row of late-night food carts. Warm air drifted up—faint oil, grilled meat, something sweet from a waffle stand. The sounds sharpened: laughter, a blender, the scrape of metal tongs.
Clara slowed just enough that he ended up beside her. “Your accent’s kind of mixed.”
“Well… born here.” He nudged a pebble with his shoe. “But I never really got to be here.”
Clara nodded like that was the most straightforward sentence in the world. “Then you missed a lot.”
They walked under a string of courtyard lamps. The yellow light pushed against the darkness like it was doing extra work tonight. “What do you think of it now that you’re back?” she said. Her tone drifted—loose, dreamlike, as if the words had slipped out on their own.
Solan hesitated. He didn’t know how to answer anything she asked. He barely knew how to answer himself. “It’s… louder here,” he said finally.
She waited.
“And…” He searched for something gentler, something safe. “…the cucumbers taste different.”
“...The cucumbers?”
“Yeah.” His face warmed. He couldn’t stop now; momentum had doomed him. “Back where I was, they didn’t taste like anything. The skin was too thick, waxed over, lots of water, no flavor. Here they’ve got the little spines, crisp when you bite them. The juice splashes onto your sleeve. They taste green. Wild.”
For a heartbeat she just stared. Then she laughed—bright, sudden, real. Her eyes folded into crescent moons, soft even in the yellow light. “You’re the first person I’ve met who judges a city by its cucumbers.”
“That’s not—what I meant,” he said, heat rising in his neck.
“It’s fine,” she said, still laughing. “I get it. You mean everything there was tamed.”
He tried to respond, but her laughter knocked the words out of his chest. It was too clear, too warm—like someone had uncorked the entire night.
“Next time,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder as they approached the row of food carts, “I’ll take you to the farmer’s market. The cucumbers there might not bite back at all.” Solan had no idea what that meant. Clara walked a few more steps, then stopped—so abruptly he nearly ran into her. She turned, hair catching the courtyard light, her expression soft in a way that felt unguarded, tilted.
Before he could ask anything, Clara stepped half a pace closer. Not quite touching—just enough to check whether he would move away. He didn’t. Then she leaned in and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. The hug wasn’t careful. Just warm, loose, a little heavy with alcohol.
Solan froze. Her cheek grazed his neck; something faintly citrus clung to her hair. Her breath touched his skin in small, steady pulses. For a moment his mind simply stopped working. What’s happening? He had no idea what to do with his hands, his breathing, or the simple fact that she seemed to mean this completely. Is this… some kind of New Elysion courtesy?
So he looked past her. Anywhere. Anything else.
That was when he saw the flyers. A whole wall of them—bright ones, torn ones, others flattened into the walkway by the day’s foot traffic. A few scraps pressed against a lamppost; others curled at the edges, soft from humidity. The same line repeated across them, stark even in the dim light: NO REPRESENTATION, NO COMPETITION. LET US PLAY.
THE NEW ELYSION BREAKERS.
Right. Earlier today—the protest. The noise. Someone yelling into a megaphone until their voice cracked. The Breakers flag—deep blue, the lightning mark. Someone wore it like a cape as they ran laps around the quad, hyping up a crowd that kept shrinking every year.
The Academy’s “official team.” Official in name only. They could scrimmage anyone, but they had no league. No division. No NCAA slot—because the Academy didn’t belong to any U.S. state, and rules were rules. No rankings. No broadcasts. No recognition. Maybe friendly matches, once in a while.
He remembered the look of the DOE building—dark windows, blinds drawn—as the last of the posters skidded across the pavement. One sheet had slapped against the glass door, clung there for a second, then slid down without a sound. It had been easier to keep walking than think about any of it. Just like now.
She finally let go. “Welcome back,” she murmured.
Before he could react, voices rose from across the street. “Clara! What did you— we’ve been looking for you!”
Two girls—maybe hallmates, maybe friends—crossed the walkway in a quick, practiced sweep. One slipped an arm around Clara’s waist; the other steadied her elbow. They moved with the easy choreography of people who had rescued her from nights like this before.
Neither of them looked at Solan. Not a glance. Not even the polite acknowledgment that he existed beside her. They just gathered Clara up—gently, efficiently, like retrieving something delicate they hadn’t meant to misplace. Clara let herself be steered, her steps loose, head turning once as if to confirm Solan was still there. Then she let the night pull her away.
A moment later they disappeared through the archway of the residential hall, swallowed by warm light and the muffled noise of other people’s lives. Solan stood there, not sure what to do with his arms or his breath or the shape the hug had left on his ribs. The flyers rustled behind him. A warm breeze slid over the stone path.
Solan really, really wanted to go back to bed.