The lecture hall empties faster than it ever fills.
It happens in stages—zippers whining shut, chairs scraping back, voices rising in overlapping complaints about deadlines and exams as people gather their things and funnel toward the exits. He stays seated long after the aisles clear, watching the last slide remain frozen on the projector screen as though it might change if he waits long enough.
Midterm moved to next week. Tuition deadline this Friday.
The professor doesn't elaborate. He never does. The words are delivered the same way everything else is in this building: assumed manageable, assumed survivable. The screen finally goes dark, and the sudden absence of light makes the room feel cavernous. Too big. Too hollow.
He exhales slowly and closes his notebook without remembering what's written inside it.
The backpack at his feet is fraying at the seams; one strap has been stitched and re-stitched so many times the fabric sits unevenly against his shoulder. He slings it on anyway and stands, joints stiff from hours of sitting in wooden discomfort meant to discourage people from lingering. He doesn't know why he ever expected college to feel different from this—still waiting, still worrying, just dressed up with ambition.
His phone vibrates before he reaches the door.
He doesn't need to look to know what it is.
Still, he does.
PAYMENT DUE: $2,746.32
PAST DUE NOTICE ATTACHED
It settles somewhere behind his sternum, heavy and familiar. Not panic—panic burns too hot. This is colder. Calculated. The feeling of numbers that don't add up no matter how many ways you turn them.
He locks the screen and slips the phone back into his pocket before it can buzz again. He already knows the amount down to the cent. Has rehearsed it in his head while washing dishes at work, while shelving books at the library, while lying awake pretending sleep will come if he ignores it long enough. Knowing just hasn't helped.
Outside, the afternoon air carries the low, constant noise of campus life. Students drift past in small clusters, laughing or arguing or staring absently at their phones. Everyone looks like they belong somewhere, even if they don't know where they're going. He adjusts his jacket and falls into step among them, another face in a crowd built to swallow people whole.
He's good at that—blending in. Looking like someone who has options.
He almost misses the way the guy a row ahead of him slows as they reach the stairwell.
Same class. Same section every semester it seems. Always near the windows, always early, always gone before most people even stand. He doesn't know his name, only the impression he leaves behind: quiet, watchful, self-contained. No flyers stuffed into his bag, no frantic schedule adjustments whispered between classmates. His clothes are understated but unmistakably expensive—the kind that don't advertise themselves because they don't need to.
They lock eyes briefly as the stream of students narrows into the exit.
It's nothing. Just coincidence.
Still, the look lingers longer than most. Assessing. Not curious exactly—more like measuring something already half-decided.
The guy turns away first.
By the time he reaches the campus steps, the weight he's been holding at bay presses in again. Rent due next week. Tuition first. The utility bill he's been ignoring. His manager cutting hours with an apologetic shrug that doesn't change his schedule. The scholarship office sending polite emails full of reassurances and no solutions. Pride stops paying bills long before it stops hurting.
He pauses at the bottom of the steps and rubs his thumb over the corner of the folded paper sticking out of his notebook—the tuition notice he printed because seeing it in ink somehow felt more real. Or more manageable. He isn't sure which anymore.
He starts toward the quad, mind busy with calculations he's already exhausted: extra shifts, late fees, the exact number of meals he can skip without it being obvious. He's done this before. Scraped by. Survived on small mercies.
Behind him, someone says his name.
Not loudly. Just enough.
He stops before he thinks better of it.
When he turns around, it's the guy from the lecture hall, standing a few feet away like he's always been there. The distance feels intentional—not close enough to crowd, not far enough to dismiss. In his hand is the folded tuition notice.
"You dropped this," he says.
His voice is calm, unhurried. The kind that never seems to waste words.
Heat flashes under his skin, sharp and unwelcome. He takes the paper too quickly, fingers brushing the other man's for half a second longer than necessary. "Thanks."
"For what?" the guy asks lightly.
"For… noticing."
A corner of his mouth lifts—not quite a smile. His gaze flicks down to the paper before returning to his face, sharp and unreadable. There's no pity there. No condescension. Only interest.
"That deadline's rough," he says.
It isn't sympathy. It's an observation. That somehow makes it worse.
"Yeah," he answers. "It is."
They stand in silence, the city noise beyond the campus gates humming distantly. He becomes painfully aware of the way he's holding himself—of the crease in his jacket sleeve, the scuff on his shoe. The guy in front of him doesn't look away. Doesn't rush to fill the gap.
"What's your major?" the guy asks, abruptly.
He blinks. "Economics."
Another faint smile, quicker this time. "Figures."
"For you," he adds before he can stop himself, "it probably doesn't."
The guy laughs once, quiet and nearly soundless. "No," he says. "It doesn't."
They exchange names—first names only, as if neither of them expects the other to keep it long. The conversation feels oddly suspended, like something standing on the edge of becoming important.
Then the guy checks his watch.
"I'll see you in class," he says, already stepping back.
"Yeah," he replies, watching him turn and merge with the passing students as if nothing significant has happened.
But something has.
He stands there longer than he should, the folded paper warm in his hand. His chest feels tight for reasons he can't fully explain. It wasn't the conversation. It wasn't the money.
It was the way he'd been looked at—like a problem already being considered.
By Friday, he knows he won't have the money.
And for the first time, he wonders who noticed… and why.