Morning sunlight pushed through the blinds like it had a personal vendetta. Aryan groaned, half-buried under a pile of notes.
His phone alarm had been going off for five minutes, a tinny loop of classical music that made him feel judged by Beethoven himself.
He sat up slowly, blinking at the mess around him—coffee mug, pencil shavings, a notebook full of half-solved equations.
"Congratulations, Carter," he muttered. "You survived another intellectual apocalypse."
He rubbed his face and looked again at the clean sheet he'd finished around two a.m. The work still made sense. That was new.
For once, he didn't feel the usual dread about heading to class. He showered, dressed in the least wrinkled shirt he could find, and headed across campus with his backpack slung over one shoulder.
The lecture hall buzzed as usual—whispers, yawns, the soft click of pens. Aryan dropped into a seat near the middle. Jules glanced over. "Carter, you look suspiciously awake. Who are you and what have you done with my friend?"
"Personal growth," Aryan said solemnly. "Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my image."
Jules blinked. "You studied, didn't you?"
"Define studying."
"Used a book for something other than doodling dragons."
"Then yes. Maybe."
Jules stared. "Wow. Cowel must've broken you."
Aryan grinned. "Or upgrade me."
At the front, Professor Cowel began the lecture, his voice steady as ever. He wrote a complex expression on the board, explaining each step with surgical precision.
Usually, Aryan's brain would drift somewhere between jokes and daydreams. But today, he found himself following. When Cowel paused and asked, "Can anyone simplify this term?" Aryan's hand moved almost before he thought.
Cowel looked mildly surprised but gestured for him to answer. Aryan stood, walked to the board, and solved it—hesitant at first, then sure.
Cowel nodded once. "Correct."
The single word landed heavier than applause.
Aryan turned back to his seat, pretending nonchalance, but Jules elbowed him. "Who are you?"
"Legend in progress," Aryan whispered.
That afternoon's tutoring session felt different, too. He arrived on time, coffee in hand, and found Cowel rearranging a stack of papers.
"Early," Cowel observed. "Is the apocalypse scheduled for today?"
"Rescheduled," Aryan said. "Thought I'd try punctuality again. It pairs nicely with genius."
"Flattery doesn't excuse arithmetic errors."
"Good thing I'm improving both."
Cowel gave a noncommittal sound but motioned to the chair. "Sit. Let's continue with the sequence problem."
For the next hour, Aryan worked, actually listened. He still cracked the occasional joke, but it was softer now—punctuation, not defence. When he hit a snag, he frowned instead of giving up.
Cowel noticed. "You've stopped performing," he said quietly.
"Performing?"
"For an audience that isn't here."
Aryan paused, pencil between his fingers. "Guess the show ran out of funding."
"Or you finally realized no one's laughing."
He should've bristled, but he didn't. "Maybe I did," he said, returning to the problem.
Minutes later, he found the right step and circled it triumphantly. "Ha!"
Cowel leaned over, checked the result, and allowed the faintest nod. "Acceptable."
Aryan smirked. "High praise."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
For a heartbeat, something almost like amusement flickered across Cowel's face, gone before Aryan could decide if he'd imagined it.
**
Later that week, the shift became visible to others. In group study, Aryan caught a classmate—Mina—struggling with a tricky limit problem. He almost ignored it; old habits died hard. But he remembered the way Cowel had explained similar steps to him, patient but demanding.
He slid his notebook over. "Try substituting here first," he said. "You'll see why it cancels."
She followed the advice, blinked, and grinned. "That worked! Thanks."
"Miracles happen daily," he said lightly, though pride snuck through the humor.
Jules raised an eyebrow. "You're tutoring now? Should I be worried?"
"Just spreading the gospel of minimal failure."
But when he caught Cowel passing through the corridor later that day, papers tucked under one arm, Aryan wondered if the professor had noticed. He didn't say anything—didn't need to.
The next session began in silence. The clock ticked. Cowel wrote an equation on the board, then another, faster this time. Aryan followed, scribbling notes.
After twenty minutes, Cowel set down the chalk. "You've improved."
Aryan shrugged. "Miracle of caffeine."
"Miracle of effort," Cowel corrected.
Aryan met his eyes. "Don't ruin it with sentiment."
"I'll try."
He looked back at the page, pretending to focus, but there was a strange warmth behind his ribs. Praise—simple, quiet—felt foreign.
Cowel cleared his throat. "You still work untidily. Clean lines reflect clean thought."
"Clean handwriting, clean mind. Got it."
"Less commentary, more computation."
"Yes, sir—sorry, professor."
Cowel almost smiled. "Progress indeed."
**
By evening, the sky had turned violet. Aryan walked out of the math building with a spring he couldn't hide. He found himself near the courtyard bench where first-years gathered. Mina sat there, frowning over notes.
Without thinking, he joined her. "Need a rescue mission?"
She laughed. "It's this integration thing. My brain hates it."
He explained the method, drawing tiny diagrams on the margin. She caught on quickly.
"See? You got it," he said.
"You're actually good at this," she replied. "Maybe you should teach."
He snorted. "One cowel is enough for this planet."
Still, her words stuck. When he walked back toward the dorms, he kept hearing them—You're good at this.
That night, his phone buzzed again. Another message from his father:
Remember, grades reflect discipline. Don't embarrass yourself.
Aryan stared at it for a long moment, then typed a short reply:
Working on it. Don't worry.
He hit send before he could second-guess it. For once, it didn't sting as much.
He opened his notebook again, flipping to the day's work. In the margin, where his chaotic handwriting filled the page, he wrote: Clean lines, clean thought.
He smiled. "Alright, Cowel," he said quietly. "We'll do it your way."
****
Two days later, during a crowded study period, Cowel entered the room to leave extra materials on the desk. Aryan was leaning over Mina's notebook, explaining something animatedly. He didn't notice the professor until the door clicked shut again.
Cowel paused outside, listening to the muffled laughter through the glass. Then he shook his head, almost smiling, and continued down the hall.
Back inside, Mina said, "You know he saw you, right?"
Aryan looked up. "Who, Cowel?"
"Yeah. You're doomed."
"Maybe he'll give me extra credit."
She laughed, but when Aryan glanced at the door, he thought he saw the faint outline of that same rare smile through the glass panel.
****
That evening he sat at his desk again, solving problems without realizing he'd lost track of time. The dorm lights dimmed. He leaned back, pencil tapping the edge of his notebook.
Somewhere along the line, the work had stopped being punishment. It had become something else—maybe pride, maybe peace. He wasn't sure.
He looked at the last equation, neat and balanced, and couldn't help grinning.
"Clean lines," he murmured. "Clean thought."
And for the first time in a long while, the thought of tomorrow didn't feel heavy.