Leon’s eyes flickered open to the dull hum of the morning, the soft early light spilling across the rumpled sheets and wallpaper. For a moment he y there, staring bnkly at the ceiling, letting the stillness of the room fill him up. His mind was groggy, like it was still warming up, until a single thought struck him like a sudden, unwelcome wave.

  Stel.

  He groaned, the sound half-muffled by the pillow. Instantly, Leon reached for his phone with a desperate need for distraction. His thumb scrolled without really looking—hoping, maybe, that there would be a message, a sign, some spark to shake him out of his drifting thoughts. But his screen remained bare of new notifications. No messages. A small relief, he rationalized—he wasn’t waiting eagerly for one anyway. With a resigned sigh, he tossed the phone back onto the bed and ran a hand through his messy hair, his thoughts already spiraling back to st night’s events.

  Why was he thinking about st night so much? It had been just ice cream and casual texting. Nothing was supposed to be complicated. But the memories of Stel’s teasing ughter, her pyful challenges, and that hint of something deeper—or perhaps more dangerous—kept gnawing at him. For a minute, he stared at the same bnk ceiling, willing his mind to settle on more practical matters.

  A sudden buzz shattered the quiet. Leon’s eyes snapped to his phone as he grabbed it almost reflexively. His heart gave a small lurch, expecting perhaps a long-awaited message, but his smile quickly faded as he saw the sender: Spam.

  With a frustrated sigh, he tossed the device back onto the bed. “Get a grip, Leon,” he muttered to himself, the tone almost mocking. He forced himself up, his feet padding against the cool floor as he prepared for the day ahead. Css. That was the pn—if nothing else, attending lectures might banish his swirling thoughts for a while.

  The short walk from his apartment to campus felt like an uncertain journey, each step a reminder that the day had barely begun. As he stepped onto the busy sidewalk, the morning chill brushed against his skin, snapping him from his reverie. He navigated through sparse crowds and familiar faces, his thoughts gradually shifting to the practicalities of the day. By the time he reached his lecture hall, he had tucked his inner monologue behind the brick walls of the building. At least temporarily, he hoped.

  Inside the lecture hall, the atmosphere buzzed with a low murmur of conversation and the rustle of notebooks opening. Leon found his usual seat near the middle, a pce that offered enough distance from both the front and the back. He settled in quietly, crossing his arms and trying—foolishly—to focus on the professor who was already scribbling equations on the board.

  “Alright, so based on the formu, X should be…” the professor began, his tone even and measured, drawing detailed diagrams as he spoke. But even as the words filled the room, Leon’s mind drifted. Calcutions, yes, but also errant fragments of Stel’s pyful tone the previous night. His inner world tangled the mundane with the personal.

  A stray thought startled him mid-sentence, and his eyes fluttered shut for just a moment. When they opened again, he caught part of the professor’s expnation:

  “...next time?”

  Then the lecture continued with,

  “—the value that determines the—”

  Followed by an odd, almost taunting voice:

  “You have no excuse to reject me.”

  Leon blinked, pulled abruptly from his distracted state. He squinted at the board, feeling the pressure of the moment as the professor’s words danced away into a blur of numbers and formus. He turned to his notes, desperately seeking some anchor, but it was all Greek to him at that moment. Math, or was it physics? The lines all jumbled together in his foggy brain.

  A soft but unmistakable whisper reached his ear. “Dude,” it said.

  Turning his head, Leon found himself meeting the amused gaze of Michael, one of his cssmates. Michael’s eyes twinkled with mirth as if he had caught a glimpse of Leon’s inner turmoil. The quiet word from Michael was a lifeline, snapping Leon back into the present.

  “You good?” Michael asked, his tone light, though it carried a hint of concern.

  Leon forced a scoff, trying to brush off his distracted state. “I’m fine.”

  Michael’s eyebrow arched in skepticism. “Uh-huh. Right. You’ve been sighing a lot, though. Got girl problems?”

  That simple question made Leon’s heart stutter. For a split second, he wondered if Michael might actually be onto him—if his silent, brooding looks and subtle gestures had betrayed his true thoughts. Michael’s smirk widened, as if the answer were obvious. “Oh, definitely girl problems,” he teased, half-joking, half-empowering.

  Leon couldn’t help but roll his eyes, an inward ugh masked by his attempt at nonchance. “Shut up,” he muttered, turning his attention back to the board. Yet, Michael’s presence lingered in the periphery—a reminder that sometimes a friend’s observant banter could cut through the thickest haze of self-doubt.

  The lecture dragged on, and soon the professor announced a challenge: “If you’re confident enough to solve this problem on the board, step forward. Whoever solves it correctly will be entitled to 15 marks.”

  Leon felt an odd mixture of determination and trepidation ripple through him. Math had always been his comfort zone, his subject where precision ruled and formus promised a known outcome. Surely, he could seize this opportunity. Leaning closer to the board, he studied the equation with a confident glint in his eye. But as he started scribbling formus in his mind, his confidence began to crumble. Line after line of calcution led him nowhere. It seemed impossible, as if the problem was carefully designed to challenge even the best students. After roughly four minutes of trying alternative approaches and rechecking every step, his efforts yielded no fruit. He had to accept defeat—or so he thought.

  “Yes, come forward and try,” the professor encouraged, calling on someone to demonstrate the solution.

  Leon felt a pang of disbelief as he realized that if he couldn’t solve it, perhaps no one could. Then his eyes caught sight of a girl rising from her seat at the back of the hall. Leon’s heart skipped a beat—a strange mix of shock and reluctant admiration. He was sure she wouldn’t be able to solve it. Yet, as she approached the board, a calm determination set into her expression. Without hesitation, she took the marker from the professor’s hand and began to work through the problem.

  A tense silence fell over the room. Leon watched intently as she moved confidently across the board, her chalk leaving clear, deliberate marks. Time seemed to stretch as the equations unfolded under her steady hand. Finally, she dropped the marker and stepped back. Leon leaned forward, waiting for the professor’s verdict with bated breath.

  “Your approach is good; you chose the right method, and your workings are solid,” the professor complimented, scanning the board with approval. “As for your answer—what’s your name, young dy?”

  She smiled shyly. “My name is Christabel.”

  The professor nodded, his voice carrying a tone of finality. “Everyone, give a round of appuse for Christabel, who has successfully solved it.”

  Leon remained seated, mouth slightly agape, a mixture of admiration and perplexity swirling within him. Christabel had solved the problem that had stumped him, and for a moment, it stung—reminding him of both his limitations and the possibility of unexpected talent. “Christabel, huh?” he whispered to himself, unable to completely mask his internal awe. In that fleeting moment, a new rivalry subtly took root in his mind—an intellectual and personal challenge he hadn’t expected.

  As the lecture ended, Michael cpped him on the back. “Tough break, man. Looks like someone else got your number today,” he said, half-joking, though Leon could sense the underlying support in his tone.

  Leon gave a noncommittal grunt in response, not really in the mood for more teasing. Yet, despite Michael’s casual antics and the professor’s praise for Christabel, there was a heaviness in his chest. The day, already marred by the relentless hum of distractions, had only deepened his inner conflict.

  After css, Leon collected his books, the lingering equations and fleeting compliments fading into the background as he walked back to campus. The walk itself was a quiet transition from the charged atmosphere of the lecture hall to the cool solitude of the te afternoon. The campus grounds were starting to empty, and Leon used the time to let his thoughts simmer down. He reviewed the events of the day in his head—a series of fshes: the disconcerting lecture fragments, Michael’s light-hearted jabs, and above all, the persistent thought of Stel.

  “You like Stel—” he began to remind himself, but he cut his inner voice off abruptly. “That’s not possible. How long have I known her before feelings like this start to grow?” Yet his mind wasn’t ready to back down. It whispered back, “If you didn’t care about her, how else do you expin her constant presence in your thoughts?”

  Leon shook his head, unsatisfied with the internal debate. Determined to settle it once and for all, he decided, “That proves nothing. Let’s make a bet: if we end up chatting today, I’ll casually drop a pyful confession and see how she reacts.”

  By the time Leon finally reached his apartment, dusk was settling over the city. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, the familiar scent of home mingling with the day’s residual energy. Alone, with nothing but his thoughts as company, Leon sank into the couch and stared bnkly at the wall. The isotion of the evening made his earlier failures in css seem all the more bitter, but it also provided a backdrop for a different sort of reflection.

  Hours passed in silence—a silence punctuated only by the occasional hum of a fan or the distant sound of traffic. Leon felt mentally exhausted, every moment a struggle to focus on anything but the odd, persistent tension in his chest. He tried to force himself to rex, to close his eyes and shut out the nagging thoughts that wouldn’t let him rest. But sleep was elusive.

  Just as he was beginning to drift into a fitful nap, his phone buzzed again. The screen lit up, dispying a new message. His pulse quickened as he saw the familiar name.

  Stel: You won’t believe what I saw today.

  Leon couldn’t help but smirk, fingers hovering over the keyboard as he quickly typed his usual retort.

  Leon: Did someone finally outrun you in sarcasm?

  Almost immediately, the message popped back.

  Stel: As if, they tripped trying. But get this—a guy in my css tripped on his shoeces. Twice. In the same hour. I almost died holding in my ughter.

  A genuine chuckle escaped Leon. He pictured the clumsy scene—a guy hopelessly entangled in his own shoeces, falling twice in quick succession. The absurdity of it momentarily lightened the weight in his chest.

  Leon: Twice? That takes talent.

  Stel: Right? I swear, the guy’s a walking hazard.

  For a moment, Leon’s mind drifted to the struggles of the day—the unsolvable problem on the board, Christabel’s quiet brilliance, and the teasing banter with Michael that had both defted and challenged him. He recalled how, in css, he’d felt the sting of inadequacy when his own efforts floundered, and how the unexpected prowess of someone else had stirred up a strange mixture of admiration and rivalry within him.

  Taking a deep breath, he typed:

  Leon: Today, in one of the lectures, the lecturer wrote a question on the board. I stared at it, confident I’d nail it because math has always been my comfort zone. But try as I might, I couldn’t crack it. I was sure no one could solve it—until someone did.

  Almost immediately, a pyful response arrived.

  Stel: Someone did?

  Leon couldn’t help but smirk as he continued recounting his day in his own quirky manner.

  Leon: Yeah. And now I know I have a rival whose name is Christabel.

  For a split second, he hesitated. His heart pounded as he considered if this was the moment—after all that failure and questioning—when he should admit, even in jest, that perhaps his heart was leaning more toward Stel than he’d ever allowed himself to acknowledge. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, almost ready to type a teasing confession like, “Maybe I’ve been chasing more than just equations all day…”

  But before he could commit the pyful admission, his screen fshed with a new message:

  Stel: Oh, also, we got a new transfer student today.

  Leon’s interest perked up instantly; it was a sudden twist in an already unpredictable day. He blinked, momentarily pushed away from his nearly-forgotten confession.

  Leon: Since when do transfer students pop up in the middle of the semester?

  Stel: Beats me. But here’s the fun part—he’s hot.

  Leon’s jaw tightened and his fingers paused mid-typing, the light from the phone casting a brief shadow across his face. His chest contracted as he swallowed hard, eyes flicking away from the screen. The word “hot” reverberated in his mind. While it wasn’t the first time Stel had mentioned attractive guys, today it hit differently—stinging his pride and infming that fragile spark of jealousy that he’d been trying to ignore. It made his stomach flutter, sending ripples through the carefully banced thoughts he’d been trying to settle.

  He forced himself to continue typing, trying to mask the sudden uncertainty.

  Leon: Oh? Should I be concerned?

  He forced a casual tone, but the rapid tapping of his thumb betrayed his unease. When Stel’s ugh emoji appeared, Leon realized he’d typed three back-to-back ellipses before the question mark—and quickly erased one.

  Stel: Pfft. Don’t ftter yourself, Leon.

  For a moment, Leon set his phone down, heart pounding. He ran a hand through his hair, more forcefully than usual, trying to dispel the sudden heat in his ears.

  Leon: Didn’t say I was.

  Stel: Uh-huh.

  Leon’s shoulders slumped as he pressed his lips together. The uniform ctter of the city outside seemed distant, repced by the echo of his own breath, staring up at the familiar ceiling, where earlier he’d entertained the possibility of confessing his feelings. Now, as his mind repyed Stel’s words and his own hesitation, he couldn’t shake the notion that every new twist in the day only complicated the quiet certainty he sought in his heart.

  The day’s events—the missed equations, the unexpected brilliance of Christabel, Michael’s teasing jabs, and the sudden arrival of the hot transfer student—spun slowly in his head like a half-remembered dream. He wondered if he was always chasing something real or merely the shadow of what might have been. Each piece of the day added another yer to the growing, unspoken truth that he was falling for Stel, even as he tried to hide it behind humor and intellectual confidence.

  Why did it matter if Christabel had solved the problem? Or if a new, attractive face had entered Stel’s life, even if only momentarily mentioned? Perhaps life, unpredictable and relentless, was simply reminding him that nothing stayed static—neither problems on a bckboard nor feelings in a quiet heart.

  With a deep, heavy sigh that mingled resignation with a faint hint of resolve, Leon buried his face in his pillow. The quiet of the room echoed his inner conflict, blending the day’s frustrations and forgotten hopes into one persistent refrain.

  “Damn... this is gonna be a problem.”

  As the night deepened, Leon finally surrendered to the relentless, chaotic rhythm of his thoughts—hoping that sleep, even if only a fleeting reprieve, might ease the flurry of emotions that refused to let him rest.