Chapter Text
▷▷ in my restless dreams, i see that town - nzo ◁◁
Strong fingers tug at my scalp. I can feel my hair being pulled from its roots, but nothing has actually ripped yet. They’re my fingers, so the pulling instinctively stops when it hurts too much. I’m glad. I don’t actually want to rip my hair out, even if it may look otherwise.
Though the glossy, wooden desk is illuminated by an eerie, duck-yellow glow from the lamp, the streetlights make my study cubicle just that little bit brighter. Following another half an hour, give or take fifteen minutes, the brightness of the sky will fade totally for the night and the library will become truly dark. Aside from the lamp light, that is. It's a shame that summer is ending and the nights will gradually get darker. This time of year is one I always dread more than anything.
I release my hands from my hair and smooth it over slightly. It doesn’t matter all that much, since there’s no one else in the college library right now, but it still feels weird to walk around looking like a hot mess. I probably do anyway, but oh well. I put myself under a sequence of careful, deep breaths to calm my building rage at the problem set, nose scrunching in disgust as I look back down to the desk again.
Switching my iPad off, I swivel around in my chair to look away from the stark light that graced me with the ability to see. I need some refreshing, and contour integration is far from it, if not the direct opposite. How the hell did Richard Feynman learn this for fun? Back when I was at sixth form, I was just about keeping up with school work. Getting ahead and learning extra maths for fun was out of picture, no matter how much I wanted it.
This annoying workload is my fault, I suppose. I delayed moving in by a whole week so I could stay with my best friend for a little longer. That decision has snuck around me and returned to kick me onto my ass. 400 pages of required reading and three incredibly difficult problem sheets just might be the end of me.
Fat lie. I’ve endured a lot worse and always came out stronger.
With a groan, I outstretch my limbs, sliding down in my chair as I feel the tension practically dissolve into nothing, away from my muscles, like white sugar in coffee. The bliss is more than welcome, and I hate that it doesn’t stay any longer. Some of life’s greater pleasures only remain for fleeting moments. What a pity.
As usual whenever I struggle to understand something, I walk over to the maths section in the college library. It’s packed with books, some relatively new-looking, and some look as old as time itself. It amazes me every time; the concept of the world’s greatest mathematicians and physicists probably having walked these halls themselves, having read these books themselves, learning in a way similar to me… it’s an honour.
Are you watching?
The time is 01:36. I know I need to kick the habit of staying up, but just this once, I promise myself. Because it’s necessary, I promise myself. The brightness of my phone sparks a dull ache in my eyeballs and my skull as the screen lights up, but I suppose I’ll have to deal with it as I switch the phone torch on. It’s not like I’ll be able to read any book names without it.
It’s not a long trek to the maths section, but it’s kind of scary, given the place is pitch-black, save from my torchlight. Once I see the little sign that reads, “Mathematics,” I smile to myself and turn into that area.
The layout of the library is different to some of the other colleges. It’s not like I’ve seen all of them, but my friend showed me what her college is like, once. It’s different.
Obviously, the library is large. Astonishingly so. Down the middle of the bottom floor is an empty aisle, making traversing the library a lot easier. Either side is divided into regular intervals, separated by bookshelves positively packed with books containing only a fraction of the world’s knowledge. Within each interval is a singular study deck, complete with a lamp, set of plug sockets, and a window overlooking either the college courtyard or the Physics Department; it depends what side you choose to sit on.
I like to choose the left side of the aisle. The Somerville courtyard is beautiful in summer. The grass is well-kept by kind volunteers within the student life committee, and it’s always clean. The view itself feels like warm summer days and picnics and cucumber sandwiches. I'm half-tempted to dash outside and lay in the grass for a bit, until I fall asleep.
I grow increasingly unsettled as I keep reading along the shelf to find a book that can rescue me from calculus hell. No book seems like it’ll help, so I keep searching, searching, searching, moving further to my side as I do so, getting closer and closer to this study cubicle’s signature window. Just as I think I’ve found something that can help, a guttural yell of shock blasts me into the next dimension and I practically leap away, shaken to my core.
I point my phone torch at whoever it is that just screamed, scowling, “What the actual hell, man? Screaming like a baby at 1am?”
I literally cannot make out what this guy looks like. He’s wearing a dark hoodie that covers most of his head, and his arm shields his face from the intense white light. I’m not sure why he seems so averted to the light, that is, until I look at his desk.
“Were you… sitting in the dark?” I ask incredulously.
“Yeah. Gets the creative juices flowing.”
I cringe internally at the odd choice of words. “I implore you to never use that phrase again.”
His arm slowly lowers, eyes presumably growing increasingly adjusted to the light, but I get rid of the torch, feeling bad for shocking him so suddenly. “Only ‘cause you asked politely.” He has a bit of a cocky twinge to his voice, this bastard.
The guy turns around to face me properly. Well, not me, I assume it’s so he can get more legroom. He’s a tall-looking guy. Just as he closes his eyes to stretch, mirroring my actions from earlier, I catch a glimpse of cerulean blue in his eyes, and it drains away the breath in my lungs. I’ve seen eyes like those before, but I’ve definitely never seen this guy prior to this interaction; he just looks different in general. Sick coincidence. It pisses me off slightly that my heart began to race in that split second I had misrecognised this random guy.
“What are you doing here this late at night?” the man asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. He stands up and sits on the desk instead, presumably so he can feel as though he’s at my eye-level. Not that it matters, since I can’t see him.
“I, uh, moved back in a bit later than normal, and the required reading list piled up a little. Have to get it all done and get a problem sheet done, on top of that. I ended up coming to this section in the hopes of finding a book that would help me understand what I’m doing a little better.” Saying this reminds me what I was here for in the first place, so I turn away from him and continue to rummage through the shelves for a book.
A gentle chill graces the air as I listen to him turn to face me. His breathing sounds somewhat unsteady and as though I genuinely did startle him earlier. “What’s your course?” he asks politely. I can practically feel his eyes boring holes into me as he watches me continue my search.
“Doing my Master’s in maths and theoretical physics,” I reply, pulling out a “Calculus for dummies” book. I feel mildly insulted by the title, and even more by the fact that this actually might be the book I’ve been looking for, but I pay it no heed as I listen to the guy hum in thought.
“Oh, nice,” he remarks, a smile evident in his voice, “I guess you could say I’m doing the same.” Without even looking at this guy’s face, I can tell he’s smirking, and it immediately makes me frown a little. What’s he got to be so smug about?
“What’s with that ominous wording?” I scoff. What an odd way to put it. ‘I guess’?
“It’s complicated, sweet thing.”
I scrunch my nose at the pet name. This dude seems a little unhinged, to say the least: first, studying in pitch-black darkness, and now this nickname? Weirdo. Though I’m not really in a position to talk.
“What’s your problem sheet on?” he asks, that inquisitive edge laced in his voice once again. I think back to the blinding white screen of my iPad and that familiar, almost irritating font that graces all of my university’s problem sheets. The title is enough to make me smile. Though I enjoy maths, sometimes understanding it is truly torturous.
“Differential equations III,” I reply nonchalantly. As if that information was a shot through the heart, the guy suddenly begins to choke, out of nowhere, and I’m assuming it’s on his own saliva. “Whoa, didn’t know it was that controversial,” I mutter.
With a voice suddenly deeper than before, he says, “I’d say I’m pretty good with that, need any help?”
I consider the offer for a moment. It’s tempting, and might save me a heap of hair-pulling and tears for at least one night, and by the sound of his voice, he really does seem like he knows his stuff. Some part of me doesn’t want to trust him, though. After all, how credible is a guy who sits alone with his thoughts at 1am in the college library?
In the end, none of that influences my decision. I’ve never really liked asking for help, and while I know when it’s appropriate to do so, the situation isn’t dire enough to ask for help yet. I decide on asking him if I struggle further.
“Nah,” I shrug, “thanks for the offer, though. I’m gonna try my best to figure it out, but I’ll ask you if I really need it. I learn so well because I enjoy the struggle, even if I cry a lot.”
“I respect that. Well, I’m probably going to be here for a little while longer, so feel free to wake me up and ask if you need.”
“You sleep in the library?” my eyebrows furrow; I’m a bit skeptical. “Are you homeless?”
“What?” The guy chokes out, “No, of course not. I just like it here.” My question seems to have caught him off-guard purely due to its ridiculous nature.
“Right,” is all I respond, somewhat teasingly. I secure my book in one arm and turn to leave for my study spot.
I’m tempted to shine my torch light on his face to actually get a look, and put together the voice and face, but I decide against it. Maybe it’ll be a fun little thing to think about for my future library visits.
“You don’t believe me!” he exclaims accusingly, “I really do!”
“Sure you do.”