(Michelle Lui's POV)
The rest of Microeconomics passed in a haze.
Every time I tried to focus on supply curves, Steven would shift slightly in his seat — the brush of his sleeve against the fabric of his shirt, the way he tapped his pen lightly against the margin of his notebook, the tiny, almost hesitant glances he kept stealing in my direction — and my brain would short-circuit like a discount phone charger plugged into the wrong outlet.
The hum of classroom chatter faded.
The clatter of laptops faded.
Even the professor's voice blurred into a monotone hum in the background, like a malfunctioning radio.
Meanwhile my heartbeat?
Front and center.
Percussion.
Full orchestra.
Every few minutes I'd try to collect myself — inhale deeply, mentally scream, return to my notes — only for Steven to adjust his glasses or tilt his head in my peripheral vision and throw me back into emotional chaos.
