Yesterday's first class with Professor Livia had passed without any major disasters—though I'd had my share of embarrassing moments.
But now, as I walked down the corridor toward today's new class, the shadow of yesterday's events settled over me again.
Especially when Cassius and Gaius caught up with me.
Cassius slung an arm across my shoulder.
"Well, philosopher Octavian," he said with a grin.
"What's today's big move? Which professor will you irritate, which girl will you drown in deep thoughts?"
Gaius laughed.
"We're curious. You set the bar pretty high yesterday."
The flame of shame flickered inside me, but I forced a calm smile to the surface.
"I'm not going to do something every day," I said.
"I'm sure today will be effortless and uneventful."
Our next class was Intro to Programming, held in a computer lab buried in the institute's basement.
When we descended the stairs, a dimly lit, airless room greeted us with a constant electrical hum.
The lab could hold sixty students, but only forty-five ancient computer terminals lined the rows.
That meant the inevitable: some of us would have to sit side by side and share a machine.
For me, that was a nightmare.
The thought of someone stepping into my personal space and peering over my shoulder at my code was enough to set my nerves jangling.
I formulated a strategy immediately.
My eyes locked on the terminal at the far end, right by the door.
It was the least desirable spot—constant foot traffic, corridor noise flooding in.
No one will want that seat, I thought.
I could stay alone.
I powered up the computer and settled into the chair.
A few minutes later, the door banged open, and in walked a man who looked like he'd wrestled with life and lost.
His hair was a wild mess, one side of his shirt hung out of his pants, and his eyes carried the weary apathy of someone who'd long since stopped caring.
"I'm Professor Quentillus Ventorius," he said, his voice like gravel.
"This term, we'll be covering Intro to Programming. I don't want introductions—waste of time. Your visibility here is directly proportional to how well you write code. Names don't matter. Your work speaks."
I glanced around the room.
Everyone had found a spot, and the chair beside me was still empty.
Inside, I let out a silent cheer. My plan had worked.
I'd just begun to relax when the door opened again.
It was Felissia.
She was breathless, cheeks flushed red.
Seeing her after yesterday's humiliating encounter felt like taking a punch to the gut.
She must have come early this morning, I thought.
What could have made her this late?
"Sorry, professor," Felissia said, her voice trembling.
"I was on the phone with my mother and lost track of time."
Professor Quentillus gave her a brief, emotionless glance.
"No matter," he muttered.
"Take any empty seat. The one at the front."
And he pointed… directly at the chair beside me.
The world collapsed around me.
There were at least five other single seats in the back—why did it have to be mine?
Was fate playing some joke on me?
My heart pounded as Felissia walked toward me, each step a slow drumbeat of impending disaster.
Okay, stay calm, I told myself.
This is a chance.
A chance to fix yesterday's mistake.
This time would be different.
No philosophy.
No hidden meanings.
Just work.
Just programming.
Could you show your skill?
Felissia reached the desk, placed her bag gently on the floor, and pulled out the chair.
She glanced at me—her eyes held worry, embarrassment, and something else I couldn't read.
She was as tense as I was.
Without a word, she sat and fixed her gaze on the dark monitor before her.
The air between us was thick enough to touch.
Neither of us spoke, but the silence carried more weight than any words could.
And at that moment, I knew today would not be "simple and uneventful."
[Same Moment – Computer Lab – Felissia's Perspective]
"No matter. Take the one in front."
My heart skipped when the professor pointed to the row where Octavian sat.
Of all the empty seats in the lab, why did it have to be there?
I really had lost track of time while talking to my mom.
She'd called from our home in Confluxia, her voice as full of worry as always.
"Did you eat, sweetheart? Don't starve yourself in that big city. If you run out of money, tell me right away."
Then the questions about friends.
"Have you met anyone yet? Remember your aunt's daughter in Apexia—have you found her? Don't stay lonely out there."
And of course, the endless warnings…
"Be careful. Apexia isn't like Confluxia. Don't wander around at night. Don't go out alone."
As much as I love her, her river of concerns sometimes leaves me breathless.
When I hung up and realized class had already started, my heart had nearly leapt out of my chest as I ran here.
Now I was walking toward the boy at the center of yesterday's awkward moment.
That conversation… was strange.
At first, when he turned a math question into philosophy, I thought he was arrogant, which annoyed me.
But later, when replayed it, I realized he'd just been trying to help.
He was genuine.
My real panic came from something else.
When he started talking about abstract ideas, I got scared.
Philosophy isn't for me; I never catch up if I get lost at the start of a topic.
I'm from Confluxia's loud, practical chaos;
He seemed like someone who'd swallowed every library in Apexia, carrying an intellectual weight that made me feel small.
If I kept talking to him, he'd notice my ignorance and my inadequacy.
So I ran.
And now I was ashamed for avoiding him in the hallway this morning.
When I sat beside him, I didn't dare meet his eyes.
He wasn't looking at me either.
We both stared at the black screens in front of us as if they held the secrets of life.
I could feel the tension radiating from his side; I was sure he felt the same from mine.
What would happen now?
Would he start another of those odd, philosophical speeches?
Or would he ignore me completely, thinking I'd rejected him yesterday?
A voice inside whispered, "Just focus on the lesson, Felissia."
But another, softer voice asked,
"Who is this boy, really?"
To my surprise, I wanted the answer more than I feared.
[Same Moment – Computer Lab]
Professor Quentillus began the class by projecting a chunk of ancient-looking code onto the screen.
"This," he murmured, "is an example of how not to do things."
For several minutes, he dissected the code's inefficiency and flawed logic.
Then he turned to the room.
"Alright," he said flatly.
"Anyone here ever worked with a programming language before? Hands up."
A hesitant silence settled.
Then ten, maybe fifteen hands rose.
I raised mine—high school basics, after all.
The professor nodded, unimpressed.
"Second language?"
Half the hands went down.
Mine stayed up.
"Third?"
Only three of us remained.
Mine was one of them.
His tired eyes scanned the last few.
"Fourth?"
The other two lowered theirs.
Only mine remained.
Quentillus's gaze locked on me.
For a second, I could swear I saw a spark of curiosity behind that bored expression.
"You," he said. "Name?"
"Octavian Corvus, sir."
"Well, Octavian Corvus," he said with a trace of mockery.
"You really know four programming languages, or are you just keeping your hand up to look impressive?"
My throat tightened.
The whole class was staring.
Even Felissia, beside me, had turned to look.
This was a challenge.
"I do, sir," I said, steadying my voice.
"I started with T-Logic, which the Taurians use. Then Valerian V-Script, and the old low-level Syrene S-Code.
For the past year, I've been teaching myself Clein-Sharp."
The professor paused.
"What do you know about their syntax?"
"T-Logic is strict and operator-heavy—no room for mistakes.
V-Script is more flexible, object-oriented, and has a vast library base.
S-Code is closer to hardware and low-level; you must manage memory carefully.
Clein-Sharp is a modern hybrid of all three."
Professor Quentillus murmured, "I see. Then come here."
Again? Me, again?
My legs trembled as I approached the podium.
He projected four new blocks of code.
"Which language is each?"
The first was a familiar logic loop.
"T-Logic."
The second defined a complex class.
"V-Script."
The third was full of cryptic symbols.
"S-Code."
The fourth was the most modern.
"Clein-Sharp."
With each correct answer, the murmuring in the class grew louder.
When I named the fourth, Professor Quentillus almost smiled.
"Seems you weren't lying… Octavian, was it? You can sit."
My face burned as I returned to my seat.
Once again, I'd pulled every eye in the room onto me.
Great. Now I'm the class nerd, I thought.
As I sat, Felissia leaned closer and whispered.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly, her voice carrying surprise and maybe a hint of admiration.
"You really wanted to be in this department."
I didn't know what to say.
I just muttered, "Yes," and instantly regretted it.
Too cold, I scolded myself.
Now she'll think I'm arrogant.
Professor Quentillus assigned us a simple "Hello World" exercise for the rest of class.
Felissia took the keyboard and began typing.
After a few minutes, an angry red error flashed across the screen.
She tried again—same error.
Her growing frustration was written across her face.
I'd spotted her mistake immediately—she'd declared a variable with the wrong data type.
But I hesitated.
If I interfere, I thought she'll think I'm showing off.
Let her figure it out herself.
Felissia muttered under her breath, "I don't get it.
Why won't it run? Does it have to be this hard on the first day?"
That quiet plea silenced the arrogant "expert" inside me and awakened the "new me" who wanted to help.
I leaned closer and whispered,
"The issue is… You set the variable with the wrong data type.
I guess yesterday's lesson from Professor Flavia already warned us to watch those details."
The words were barely out of my mouth before embarrassment hit me.
I still sounded like I was giving a lecture.
But this time, it was different.
No philosophy.
No grand speeches.
Just clear, practical advice—shared, not imposed.
A lesson learned from yesterday.
Felissia paused, then looked back at her code.
"Oh!" she said softly.
"You're right…"
She corrected the variable and reran the program.
This time, the screen displayed "Hello World."
The relief and small smile across her face made every ounce of my awkwardness worth it.