Chapter Thirteen: It's Dark Out
---
Saturday. 8:03am. Lecture hall.
Josie slid into the back row, casually.
Pink hoodie sleeves pushed up, joggers, hair in a messy bun that was already falling apart. No umbrella. No stacks of gifted textbooks. Just her.
8:15am. The new tutor walked in. Tunde. Final year. Yoruba. Tall, clean cut, dimples when he smiled at the class. He wrote _Partial Differential Equations_ on the board in neat, confident strokes.
Josie heard the girl next to her whisper, _“He’s fine sha.”_
Another one giggled.
He _was_ good looking. And nice. Patient when Ebube asked the same question twice. He didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll his eyes. The new set of girls leaned forward. Even the few guys nodded along, impressed.
8:42am. Tunde turned, marker in hand, and caught her eye. “You following, Josie?”
She blinked. He knew her name already. His voice was warm. Kind.
8:43am. “Yeah,” she said. “Thanks.”
And for a second — just a second — she let herself notice him. Really notice. The way the morning light hit his skin. The easy way he carried himself. God’s creation. Objectively. Undeniably. A little spark of appreciation, nothing more. Nothing dangerous. Just... nice.
But it wasn’t the same.
No dry _“It’s God, Josie”_ when she asked why the method worked. No coffee-smell drifting from a paperback he wasn’t supposed to be reading. No _Thermodynamics for Beginners_ with dog-eared pages just for her.
Tunde was good. But he wasn’t Orwell.
9:47am. Tutorial ended. Josie didn’t linger. Her chest felt hollow. Like someone had swapped out her chair when she wasn’t looking.
10:30am. Main Library.
She knew his spot. Second floor, east wing. By the window. Where he should’ve been tutoring the four girls.
He wasn’t.
He was alone. _Fluid Mechanics_ open, but he wasn’t reading. Just staring out at the grey sky, pen tapping against the table. Once. Twice. Like a metronome for thoughts.
Ordinary. So ordinary it made her chest ache. Unusual boy doing normal people things.
Josie’s steps slowed. Heart kicked up.
10:31am. “You’re not tutoring,” she said. It came out flat. Accusatory.
Orwell looked up. “No.”
10:32am. “You quit.” Not a question. Word had gone round. _Orwell said he’s done. No more tutorials._
“Yeah.” He closed the book. No dog-ears.
10:33am. The thought slammed into her before she could stop it: _Was it because of me?_ Because she said she liked him? Because Cassie called her _little sister_ and maybe he heard? Because she was a project he was tired of?
Her throat went dry.
10:34am. “Did you—” She cut herself off. Too vulnerable. Too much.
Orwell’s brow furrowed. Then he understood. “No, Josie.”
10:35am. He leaned back. “Thesis. That’s all.”
Blunt. Not rude. Just him. Honest in a way that scraped but didn’t bleed.
Josie exhaled. Relief and something else she didn’t want to name tangled in her ribs.
10:36am. “Oh.” She shifted her weight. “Thanks. For the books. And the umbrella.”
Orwell nodded once. Looked back out the window. “Rain’s coming. Use it.”
10:37am. “You said that in your text,” she muttered.
10:38am. He glanced at her. “Why are you still here?”
Josie flushed. Hot. Immediate. Caught. “I—”
10:39am. He didn’t wait. “You don’t owe me anything.”
10:40am. It began to rain outside.
Fat drops hitting the windowpane. The sky opened up, sudden and loud. Students outside scrambled. The campus blurred.
Josie didn’t move. She loved it.
10:41am. The sound filled the library. Filled the silence between them. Filled the space where _little sister_ used to live.
Orwell picked his pen up again. “Window’s open.”
10:42am. Josie didn’t close it. She stood there, hoodie warm, rain hammering glass, and for the first time all morning, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be anywhere else.
---
The rain hadn’t started yet, but the sky was thinking about it. Grey. Heavy. Like the air before a bad decision.
Josie’s footsteps hesitated before she committed. Like she was negotiating with the floor.
The temptation was sitting right there in her jaw, tight with questions she wouldn’t ask. And he couldn’t resist.
10:33am. “Olatunde Kelvin,” Orwell said. “Good looking guy.”
Josie’s breath hitched. Audible.
She didn’t deny it. Didn’t say _he’s not my type_. Didn’t do anything but stand there, pink hoodie swallowing her, cheeks redenning.
Something flickered in her face then. A shift. Jaw loosened. Eyes narrowed.
She was thinking something naughty. _Little sister. Charity project._ She wanted payback. Wanted to make him squirm.
10:34am. “What kind of man do you want to marry, Josie?”
Her mouth opened. Closed. The naughty thought died on her tongue.
10:35am. “I— What?”
“You heard me.” He didn’t look at her. Kept his eyes on the window. On the rain that wasn’t falling yet. “Since we’re doing personal questions. You seem to have opinions on why I quit. So. Husband. Go.”
10:36am. Silence. Then: “Why would I— I don’t— I haven’t—” She was gasping for breath now. Embarrassed.
Utterly.
Like he’d asked her to recite her diary in front of the whole department.
10:39am. “Someone smart,” she finally muttered. Barely audible. “Who doesn’t think I’m a... a project.”
10:40am. It began to rain outside.
He didn’t react. Didn’t look at her. Kept his distance. Three feet of library table between them. His eyes stayed on the window, on the water streaking glass.
10:42am. He picked the pen up again. Tapped. Once. “Window’s open.”
10:43am. She didn’t close it. Just stood there, rain loud, chest rising too fast.
Rain hammered the glass, cold air biting at her sleeves. She stood there, chest rising too fast, waiting.
Orwell clicked his tongue. Stood. Reached past her.
10:44am. The window slid shut with a soft _thud_. His arm brushed her hoodie — not touching skin, but close enough that she felt the shift in air.
“It’s cold,” he said.
Blunt. Like closing a window was just logic, not care.
10:45am. He gathered _Fluid Mechanics_. No ceremony. “It’s dark now.” He nodded at the rain-streaked glass, the library lights flickering on. “Let’s go outside.”
Josie blinked. “Outside?”
10:46am. He was already walking. “Library’s empty enough.”
It was. Scantily populated. A few stragglers at distant tables, heads down. The second floor felt cavernous. Abandoned.
She followed. Didn’t understand. Each step he took widened the three feet between them to four. Then five. Like she had something contagious.
10:47am. They were at the Library Balcony.
Rain roared. The covered balcony was empty.
Private.
But she wasn't scared. Wasn't flustered.
Wet air, grey light, the smell of books and storm.
Orwell leaned against the railing. Didn’t look at her. Jaw set. Shoulders locked.
That look.
The same one from the auditorium. Like he was swallowing words that would burn on the way up.
Orwell aura. Thick. Suffocating.
10:48am. Josie’s chest hurt. Confusion tangled with something hotter. _He doesn’t want me here. He can’t even look at me. I’m unwanted._
She couldn’t read him. Couldn’t decipher it. So she went for the metaphor. The only one that felt safe.
10:49am. “Do you regret buying me the books?”
Her voice was small. Rain almost took it.
She didn’t mean the textbooks. She meant _her_. The umbrella. The dog-eared pages. The _“It’s God, Josie”_. The way he said her name like it was a problem he hadn’t solved yet.
10:50am. Orwell scoffed. Didn’t turn. “No.”
Blunt. Dismissive. “I’d do it for any friend. Ordinary.”
10:51am. _Friend._
The word hit her ribs and bloomed warm. _Friend._ Not _little sister_. Not _project_. Friend.
But it wasn’t enough.
Because he still wouldn’t look at her. Still kept that three-foot quarantine between them like she had covid. Like proximity was dangerous. Like _she_ was dangerous.
10:52am. Josie stepped closer. One foot. The rain misted her sneakers.
“You're ... strange, Orwell.” she said. Adamant. Voice shaking.
10:53am. He finally turned.
And the look was gone. Orwell aura cracked. Just for a second. Eyes on her.
Really on her.
Something raw and unmetered in his face.
Then it was gone.
10:54am. “How strange?” he said.
Just that. Blunt. Not rude. Just curious.
“Since I got here you won’t look at me. You’re talking to the rain. You’re standing like I have—like I have covid or something. Why?”
Orwell exhaled. Long. Like he’d been holding that breath since 10:31am.
Finally, he looked at her. Really looked. Eyes steady. No Orwell aura. No blank calculation. Just tired. Honest.
10:57am. “Because I feel tension when you’re around me,” he said.
Calm. Truthful. Not an outburst. Not cruel. Just composed words that landed like stones in still water.
10:58am. “In a place like this,” he continued, glancing at the empty, dim balcony. The rain. The isolation. “Small. Close. It promotes... things. And I don’t want to do anything stupid.”
Josie stopped breathing.
_Stupid._
Not _wrong_. Not _you’re a project_. Not _little sister_.
_Stupid_. Like it would be a mistake he couldn’t take back. Like self-control was a muscle he was actively flexing.
The straight-forwardness threw her off balance. No games. No _“It’s God, Josie”_ deflection. No _“you don’t owe me anything”_ wall.
Just truth. Composed. Bare.
Her knees felt weak. Not from romance. From whiplash. From realizing the distance wasn’t rejection. It was restraint.
“Oh,” she said. Small.
Orwell looked away again. Back to the rain. Jaw tight. The moment of honesty cost him. She could see it in the set of his shoulders.
“So _friend_ was...” She couldn’t finish.
“A fact,” he said. “And a boundary.”
At 11:02am, the library lights buzzed overhead. Rain kept hammering. Three feet apart suddenly felt like three miles and three inches all at once.
Josie wrapped her arms around herself. Not from cold. From the sheer pressure of the air between them.
Barometric. Unbearable.
▪︎▪︎▪︎
