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Chapter 5 - The Waiting Game

"Where's the damn hoodie?" Jeremy muttered, tossing a half-folded T-shirt onto the bed. His room looked like it had exploded—jeans strewn over his desk chair, sneakers mismatched by the door, and a belt hanging from the ceiling fan like a noose. He yanked open a drawer and dug through socks, boxers, receipts, and… deodorant?

"You got a date with The Queen or what?" Marcus drawled from the doorway, arms folded across his chest like a bored bouncer.

Jeremy looked up, hair wild and face flushed. "She said coffee. That's a date, right?"

Marcus stepped in, kicking aside a stray bottle of cologne. "Relax, man. If she says yes, it's a date. If she shows up on time, it's a good date."

"I just don't want to look like a loser," Jeremy mumbled, holding up two shirts—a navy button-up and a grey Henley.

Marcus made a face. "You already do. But wear the Henley. It makes your arms look like you've touched a dumbbell before."

Jeremy chuckled, but his nerves didn't ease. "She's just… she's different."

Marcus flopped onto the bed, narrowly missing a rogue sneaker. "Different? Jeremy, she's a woman. Don't let the fancy vocabulary and 'PhD aura' fool you. They all want the same thing—attention, security, and someone who actually listens."

"She's not like the girls here."

"Exactly why you need to play this smart. Don't overdo it. Be curious. Ask questions. But don't look desperate."

Jeremy glanced at the mirror, smoothing his curls. "You think she's just messing around?"

"I think she's a bored grad student who probably sees you as an ego boost or a pet project. Don't get caught up."

Jeremy winced. The words stung more than he'd admit, but he nodded anyway. "Alright. I'll just go be chill and mysterious and all that crap."

Marcus grinned. "Attaboy. Go break a heart—or get yours broken trying."

---

4:53 p.m.

Jeremy took a deep breath and slid into a small booth near the back of the coffee shop. The place smelt like cinnamon, espresso, and fake confidence. He checked his reflection in his phone screen, wiped imaginary sweat off his brow, and ordered an iced vanilla latte even though he hated vanilla.

He liked being early. It gave him time to think. Time to imagine her walking in, maybe in jeans and that baggy Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back but messy. She'd smile, toss her bag down, and say something like, *"Hope you weren't waiting long."*

He checked the time again. 5:03 p.m.

No big deal. She might be walking here. Or maybe finishing a paper.

5:17 p.m.

Still no Ava. Jeremy had already read through half of the news app, skimmed through three notifications from his dad (ignored), and memorised the menu board.

What if she forgot?

What if she's ghosting me in real life?

What if she got hit by a car?

What if this was a prank? Some kind of long-haul grad student hazing ritual?

He texted her once:

Jeremy: Here when you are. Hope everything's okay.

No reply.

5:32 p.m.

His latte was a puddle of melted ice. A waitress had asked if he was waiting on someone—twice.

Maybe she had an emergency. Or lost her phone. Or maybe she saw me and walked away.

He imagined her outside, watching him through the window, deciding she didn't feel like doing this anymore. Maybe she pitied him. Maybe Marcus was right.

5:49 p.m.

She arrived.

No apology. No flustered explanation. Just Ava Morgan, cool as a glacier in a fitted blazer, her curls pinned up, carrying a leather satchel and a small black notebook.

"Hey," she said, sliding into the booth. "Hope I didn't keep you too long."

Jeremy blinked. "Uh… no. All good."

He smiled, but something in him twisted. She was dressed like she was heading to a job interview—not coffee with a freshman she once called 'adorable.'

"How's your day been?" he asked.

"Busy," she said, already flipping open her notebook. "Lots of marking. And I had to meet with my supervisor. He's a nightmare—kind but clueless."

Jeremy chuckled, trying to find the warmth they'd had in the library. "I can imagine. Supervisors and cluelessness seem to go hand in hand."

Ava gave a tight smile. "Anyway, I wanted to use this time productively. You said you're into psych, right?"

"Yeah…"

She nodded, then started outlining study techniques, referencing meta-analyses on cognitive load theory and time-blocking routines. She asked him about his classes, suggested books, and even offered to lend him her notes on abnormal psychology.

It was kind. Thoughtful. And completely impersonal.

Jeremy sipped what was left of his drink, trying to keep up, but her tone felt like a lecture. No spark. No teasing. No Ava.

At one point, he leaned forward. "Hey, you remember that Milgram thing you did? The way you explained it… that was wild."

She smiled politely. "Yeah, it's a good case study. Textbook stuff, really."

Then she was back to listing academic YouTube channels.

---

6:37 p.m.

They walked out together. The sun was beginning to dip, painting the sky in orange streaks. She said goodbye with a pat on his shoulder and a vague, "Take care of yourself, Jeremy. And stay curious."

He watched her walk away, head held high, heels clicking like punctuation marks in the silence.

---

Back in his dorm room, the air felt heavier than usual. Jeremy lay on his bed, still in his date clothes, staring at the ceiling fan.

He felt… stupid.

He replayed the evening like a badly directed short film. Every missed beat. Every time he tried to steer the conversation toward something real, he got met with clinical indifference.

Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe the library version of her was a glitch.

Or maybe Marcus was right—maybe he was just another freshman in her rearview mirror.

He sighed, the weight in his chest deepening. Then his hand slid under the waistband of his jeans. Not out of lust—but habit.

A desperate way to feel something that wasn't disappointment.

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