Zara Johnson had a theory: life was basically a conspiracy orchestrated by cruel cosmic forces whose only goal was to make her suffer in style.
Case in point: this Monday morning.
She sat slouched in the back row of her Linear Algebra lecture hall, an espresso in one hand, a notebook in the other, and a desperate hope that Professor Ethan Caldwell would not notice how wildly unprepared she was. Not that he needed to. Even if she flunked this class in spectacular fashion, she would still live for the rare glimpses of him that brightened her otherwise tragic existence.
Professor Caldwell was everything Zara admired and feared: tall, lean, the kind of man who looked like he walked straight out of a classical painting, except with modern arrogance stitched into every movement. His hair was always perfectly in place, his glasses never slipping, and the faint scent of cologne that followed him around seemed to be calibrated to destroy lives subtly.
Zara had been his student for three semesters, and she could confidently report: he had smiled at her exactly twice. Once during a campus orientation and once while walking past her in this very classroom. Those smiles were legendary. They lived in her daydreams, in her heart, in the margins of every notebook she pretended to take notes in.
Today, she had planned meticulously. Hair tied back in a messy bun that somehow made her look casual but chic, her favorite red sweater that screamed, "Notice me!" and jeans that didn't make her look like she had rolled out of bed—though she definitely had.
Her friend and partner-in-chaos, Tasha, shot her a side-eye from the desk beside her. "You're staring again. You're basically staring at him like a cartoon character with hearts in her eyes."
Zara ignored her. "I am not staring. I am appreciating the aesthetic perfection of a man who is clearly unaware that he is a god among mortals. Observation is an academic skill."
Tasha snorted, jotting something down in her own notebook. "Academic skill or stalking?"
"I'll have you know," Zara whispered, leaning closer so no one else could hear, "that stalking requires intent. This is pure, passive admiration."
She caught Professor Caldwell adjusting his chalk on the board, and her heart did a very undignified flip. She scribbled something in her notebook that looked like a mathematical equation but was actually a tiny heart with an arrow through it. That counts as note-taking, right?
By the third minute of class, disaster struck: her stomach growled like a disgruntled bear. Loud, insistent, and entirely public.
"Shhh!" Tasha hissed, covering her mouth with one hand while trying not to giggle.
Zara glared at her. "Shhh? Do you think my stomach cares about subtlety? It has opinions, Tasha. Opinions about life, love, and the cruelty of unrequited academic crushes."
The growl echoed again, a little louder, drawing a few suspicious glances from nearby students. Professor Caldwell, however, did not flinch. Not even a twitch. His back was turned, chalk scratching elegantly against the board, unaware of the chaos he had inadvertently triggered in row six.
Zara groaned and pressed her hand against her stomach. "I hate this. Universe, why do you punish me this way?"
"Punishment?" Tasha asked, arching an eyebrow. "You literally chose to drink three espressos before class."
"Yes, because caffeine improves brain function!" Zara shot back indignantly. "Clearly, the universe doesn't understand the intricate relationship between stimulants and survival in higher education."
A long, exasperated sigh escaped her as she tried—again—to focus on the professor's lecture. It was impossible. Linear Algebra was difficult enough under normal circumstances. With Ethan Caldwell walking around, hands tucked in his pockets, occasionally pushing up his glasses in a way that made her want to melt into a puddle of admiration and jealousy at the same time… well, it was unfair.
By mid-lecture, she had given up. Her notebook was now a collection of doodles: little stick figures dramatically swooning, hearts exploding, captions like "Why, universe? Why him?" and "I swear I'll survive this torment."
Tasha peeked over. "You know, you might actually learn more if you took real notes."
Zara gave her a dramatic look. "You don't understand. This is method studying. By emotionally engaging with the professor's aesthetic aura, I am absorbing knowledge through osmosis. Revolutionary, really."
A few minutes later, fate decided to kick her in the teeth again. Professor Caldwell paused mid-step, looked around the room, and for a terrifying second—just a second—Zara thought he was going to notice her.
Her heart stopped.
He didn't.
He passed by, deliberately brushing past a student two rows in front of her, giving a polite nod. Not at her.
Zara's internal monologue screamed in dramatic fashion: Yes! Ignore me! That's fine! I totally didn't want to die happy anyway!
By the end of class, Zara's brain felt like mashed potatoes and her dignity had been slowly disintegrated by sheer exposure to perfection. She gathered her things slowly, savoring her dramatic misery. She and Tasha walked out into the brisk campus air, the chaos of student life swirling around them.
"Do you want to grab coffee?" Tasha asked. "You clearly need a refill for the sheer trauma you just survived."
"Yes," Zara sighed. "And possibly a medal for bravery. Surviving three hours of mathematics while actively dying inside counts for something, right?"
Tasha laughed. "Sure, medal-winner. I'll get you one with your name engraved: 'Most Dramatically Obsessed.'"
"Perfect." Zara's grin was wry, her eyes sparkling with the familiar fire of sarcasm. She pulled her sweater tighter around her, thinking about her plan for the day. Her life wasn't perfect. Her crush wasn't hers. Her assignments were a nightmare. But she was alive, sarcastic, and ridiculously stubborn. And somehow, that made everything a little more bearable.
Across campus, she passed the small bookstore she frequented, where the owner always greeted her with a weary smile. She waved, waving back his greeting with exaggerated flair. "Morning, sir! Try not to think too hard about my brilliance today."
He raised an eyebrow. "I'll do my best, Miss Johnson."
She grinned, tossing her hair dramatically. "Thank you. I expect nothing less."
By the time she arrived at her favorite café, she was already scanning the crowd for potential entertainment, something to fuel her inner drama. Maybe she'd write a short story about her life, starring herself as a chaotic genius navigating a world of indifferent mortals and ridiculously perfect professors.
She ordered her usual—a triple espresso, black, and a pastry she absolutely did not need—and found a corner seat. As she sat, she noticed a group of students at a nearby table attempting a group project. Their whispered arguments were like a symphony of mediocrity to her eyes.
Zara took a bite of her pastry, closing her eyes in exaggerated ecstasy. "Oh yes. Life is pain, but also pastry. Balance is everything."
Tasha groaned. "You're ridiculous."
"Thank you," Zara said proudly, "I try."
Her phone buzzed. A message from her younger cousin: Hey, want to come over this weekend? Party at my place.
Zara groaned. "Family and social obligations? Universe, I beg you, spare me today."
Tasha laughed. "You're not going to survive real life if you keep whining this much."
"I survive on sarcasm, caffeine, and my crushingly dramatic thoughts," Zara replied solemnly. "It's an art form."
As the morning rolled into afternoon, Zara moved between lectures, cafés, and campus strolls with the practiced precision of a woman who knew chaos intimately—and wielded it like a weapon. She tripped over a loose paving stone, narrowly avoided spilling her coffee on an unsuspecting freshman, and narrowly dodged a frisbee that flew from some mysterious corner of the quad.
She landed on a bench, catching her breath, and looked up at the sky. Somehow, she always felt like life was cons
piring to make her simultaneously miserable and amused.
And honestly? She loved it.
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