---
Weeks robbed by.
That’s how it felt.
One minute it was 1:54pm and Cassie was saying _Start from the beginning_. The next it was three weeks later and Josie was still trying to deal with Cassie’s excessive season.
Excessive. Relentless. _Unhinged_.
Because Cassie did not let it go.
Not the umbrella. Not the collapse. Not the _two packs of noodles with egg_. Not the _Hydrate_. Especially not the _Hydrate_.
Cassie brought it up every day. At breakfast. “You hydrating, Miss Amazon Package?” At night. “Orwell Ferguson, o. The noodle pastor.” In the middle of lectures she’d text: _Did you remember to breathe today or you need your landlord to count it for you?_
It was too much.
So Josie did something stupid again.
She started skipping classes.
Because she did not know how to face him again.
It was irrational. She knew it was irrational. FUTA was massive. Thousands of students. The odds of running into Orwell Ferguson between LT1 and the library were slim. Astronomical, even.
But her brain didn’t care about odds.
Her brain said: _What if you turn a corner and he’s there? What if he sees you and asks about your water intake? What if he scans you again? What if you cough?_
So she stopped going.
It started with one lecture. _Just today. I’m tired._ Then two. _The rain looks bad._ Then a week. _I’ll catch up._
Now it was 10:23am on a Tuesday and Josie was home.
Alone.
Cassie had thermo. 8am to 11am. Three hours of freedom.
The dorm was quiet. Too quiet. You could hear the ceiling fan wobble. You could hear the neighbors arguing about stolen milk two doors down.
Josie was on the floor.
Back against her bed. Knees pulled up. Bouncing Cassie’s ball off the wall.
_Thud. Catch. Thud. Catch._
It was an old basketball. Faded orange. Cassie used it for stress. Said dribbling helped her think through fluid mechanics. Josie used it to avoid thinking at all.
_Thud. Catch._
She was denying it.
That was the problem.
She was denying the fact that this guy she just met had an effect on her.
It wasn’t a crush. God no. It couldn’t be. He was _weird_. He forgot umbrellas. Diagnosed allergies. Fed her like a stray and dismissed her like a delivery.
But.
She remembered the way he moved in the kitchen. Precise. Silent. Like he’d rehearsed it.
She remembered _Hydrate_. Said with his eyes on the steering wheel. Like it mattered.
She remembered the scan. Clinical. Anticipatory. Like he was _waiting_ for something.
And she hated that she remembered.
_Thud._
The ball slipped. Rolled under Cassie’s bed at 10:24am.
Josie didn’t go after it.
She just sat there. Staring at the black umbrella propped in the corner of the room.
It hadn’t moved in three weeks.
Neither had she.
---
Josie lasted two more days.
Two days of _thud, catch_. Two days of instant noodles and Cassie’s voice in her head: _Orwell Ferguson, o. The noodle pastor._ Two days of checking her phone like Dr. Adekunle would email _Attendance is mandatory or die_.
He didn’t email.
He did worse.
Friday. 9:04am.
Josie was on the floor again. Dorm goblin mode. Hair in a bun. Oversized FUTA shirt. Staring at the ceiling fan like it owed her money.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She ignored it.
It buzzed again.
And again.
_Fine._
She answered. “Hello?”
“Josie Adebayo?”
Her stomach dropped.
It was Mrs. Funke. The department secretary. Voice like a filing cabinet. “You are to report to Dr. Adekunle’s office. Now. EEB 301.”
“Why—”
_Click._
Josie sat up at 9:05am.
_No. No no no._
But she went.
Because Mrs. Funke didn’t ask. Mrs. Funke _summoned_.
EEB 301 smelled like old textbooks and disappointment. Dr. Adekunle was at his desk. Balding. Glasses. Marking scripts with a red pen that had seen war.
He didn’t look up. “Adebayo. You’ve missed six lectures.”
Josie opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
“Seven,” he said. “Including today.”
Her throat was dry. _Hydrate,_ her brain whispered. _Shut up,_ she told it.
Dr. Adekunle finally looked at her. Over his glasses. “This is Engineering Thermodynamics II. Not kindergarten. People fail this course.”
“I know, sir. I’m sorry. I’ve been—”
“Sick,” he finished. “Yes. Your attendance sheet says otherwise. It says absent.”
Josie stared at the floor.
Dr. Adekunle sighed. Capped his pen. “We have students lagging behind in this course. I do not have time to spoon-feed adults.”
He pulled a file. Flipped it open.
“Josie Adebayo,” he read. Then looked up.
“Orwell Ferguson.”
The name hit her like a slap at 9:07am.
Josie’s head snapped up. _What?_
Dr. Adekunle wasn’t done. “Mr. Ferguson is top of this class. 94 average. He has agreed to tutor those lagging behind. You will meet him. Mondays and Wednesdays. 4pm. Engineering Library. Room B.”
Silence.
Josie’s mouth was open. Her brain was blue-screening.
_Orwell. Tutor. Me._
“I— Sir, I don’t think—”
“He already agreed,” Dr. Adekunle said. Not unkind. Just final. “Report to him on Monday. Or fail. Your choice.”
Josie walked out of EEB 301 at 9:09am.
Legs numb.
He agreed.
Orwell agreed to be her tutor.
She didn’t even know he _went_ to class. She thought he lived in his G.R.A. house and appeared only to rescue coughing girls and cook noodles.
But he was top of the class.
94 average.
And now she had to sit across from him. Twice a week.
While he scanned her. While Cassie’s voice lived rent-free in her head. While the umbrella sat in her dorm like evidence.
_God._
Her phone buzzed.
Cassie: _You alive? Mrs. Funke just asked me where you dey_
Josie stared at it.
Then at EEB 301.
Then at the sky.
It was going to rain.
---
It did rain.
Like the sky was waiting for Dr. Adekunle to ruin her life first.
Josie walked out of EEB at 9:09am and felt it. A single drop. Cold on her cheek.
_I can make it,_ she thought. _If I walk fast. If I cut through the small gate. I can beat it._
So she walked.
Fast.
Head down. Bag clutched to her chest.
The rain came down on her slowly at first. Polite. _Drip. Drip._ Like it was giving her a head start.
Josie sped up.
_Don’t repeat it. Don’t repeat the coughing. The collapsing. The noodles. The Hydrate. Don’t let it happen again._
Then the sky ripped open at 9:14am.
It wasn’t rain. It was buckets.
Josie ran.
She made it to the bus stop by the Engineering gate at 9:16am. Soaked. Shirt sticking to her skin. Hair plastered to her forehead. Breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
And there was no bus.
No keke. No bike.
Nothing.
Just rain.
Beating her.
_Drenching_ her.
Like the universe was laughing. _You thought you could avoid him? In this weather?_
Josie stood there. Under the tiny, useless bus stop roof. Water pouring off the edges like a waterfall. Her shoes were full. Her bag was soaked. Her phone was probably dead.
She was shivering at 9:17am.
And then she saw him.
Orwell.
Coming toward her.
With a black umbrella.
Not _the_ umbrella. A different one. Sleeker. Same energy though.
He wasn’t running.
He was walking.
Steady. Measured. Like he was working. Like he was after a mission that he needed to accomplish. Each step deliberate. Cutting through the rain like it was an inconvenience, not a storm.
Gray eyes locked on her.
Josie couldn’t move.
He felt like a dream.
No.
He felt like she was dreaming about hell.
Because this was it. The loop. The nightmare. Caught in the rain. Again. Him with an umbrella. Again. Her looking like a drowned rat. _Again._
Except this time she wasn’t coughing.
She was just _standing there_.
Orwell stopped in front of her at 9:18am.
Didn’t say anything.
Just held the umbrella out. Over her head.
The rain stopped beating her.
Suddenly it was quiet. Just the sound of water hitting canvas. Just his breathing. Just hers.
Josie looked up.
Water dripped from her lashes.
He looked down.
Same clinical scan. Face. Posture. Breathing. Logging data.
“Thermodynamics II,” he said. Flat. “Room B. Monday. 4pm.”
Josie blinked.
Rainwater in her eyes. Or tears. She couldn’t tell.
“Don’t be late,” he said.
Then he turned.
And walked away.
Leaving her under the umbrella.
Alone at the bus stop at 9:19am.
Soaked. Shaking.
Holding his umbrella like déjà vu with a receipt.
---
The weekend robbed her of sleep.
Josie felt like she was literally going insane.
The _you-are-the-main-character-of-a-movie_ kind of insane. The kind where the soundtrack swells when you open a door. Where rain happens on cue. Where a guy with gray eyes and a 94 average keeps appearing with umbrellas like plot devices.
She hated it.
Saturday morning, 7:12am. She took her meds.
The little white tablets Dr. Eze prescribed last month. For the cough. For the weakness. For the thing she didn’t like naming.
She swallowed them dry. Stared at her reflection.
Still sick.
Still pale.
Still the girl who collapsed on a stranger’s porch and got adopted by his noodles.
She was blocking it out.
All of it.
The scan. The _Hydrate_. The bus stop. The _Don’t be late_.
Every encounter with him got shoved into a mental box labeled _DO NOT OPEN_.
She didn’t open it.
She cleaned the dorm instead. Scrubbed the floor Cassie hadn’t mopped in weeks. Folded clothes. Rearranged books. Anything to keep her hands busy and her brain quiet.
Cassie watched her. Dark skin glowing under the dorm light. Sharp, pear-shaped eyes tracking every movement. Full lips pursed.
“You’re spiraling,” Cassie said Sunday night.
“I’m cleaning.”
“You’re spiral-cleaning. There’s a difference.”
Josie didn’t answer.
Because Monday was coming.
And Monday came.
4:00pm on the dot.
Engineering Library. Room B.
Josie stood in front of the door.
Her palms were sweating. Her throat was tight. The meds sat heavy in her stomach. She could still taste them. Bitter. Clinical. Like _him_.
She didn’t want him to analyze her again.
Didn’t want those gray eyes doing that thing. That scan. Face. Posture. Breathing. Logging data like she was a faulty equation he needed to solve.
_Just open it. Get it over with. Fail with dignity._
She pushed the door open at 4:01pm.
And like the Orwell that he is —
He was standing right at the other side of the door.
Not sitting. Not waiting at the table.
Standing.
One step inside.
Like he’d been there. Anticipating. Calculating her exact arrival time down to the second.
Gray eyes landed on her.
And the scan started.
Immediate. Automatic.
Face. Shoulders. Hands. Breathing.
Josie froze in the doorway.
_God help me._
She tried to look away.
Instinct.
Because his eyes were doing _the thing_.
That clinical, anticipatory scan. Like he was checking her RPM and oil levels.
So she looked away.
Fast.
Scanned the room instead.
_Calculate. Calculate._
How do you walk into a room when a 6-foot wall of gray eyes and thermodynamics is standing in the doorway?
He wasn’t moving.
Not an inch.
Like he’d been planted there. Like the doorframe was his natural habitat now.
Her eyes darted.
Table. Chairs. Whiteboard. Windows.
And then—
The table.
Her stomach dropped at 4:01pm.
The umbrella.
Black. Sleek.
_His_ umbrella.
The one from the bus stop.
Josie’s breath caught.
Because she remembered.
She never took it home.
She left it there. At the bus stop. In the rain. On the concrete.
On purpose.
Because she wanted to block it out. Block _him_ out. Block the fact that this was beginning to actually become something real to her.
The nightmares. The noodles. The _Hydrate_. The tutoring assignment. The way he said _Don’t be late_.
If she left the umbrella, maybe she could pretend none of it happened.
Maybe she could go back to 9am Josie.
Before the cough. Before the collapse. Before _him_.
But it was here.
On the table.
Dry. Folded. Waiting.
Like he’d retrieved it. Like he’d _kept_ it.
A lump formed in her throat. Thick. Immediate.
_Oh my God,_ she thought. _What is this?_
He picked it up.
He brought it here.
To Room B.
For her.
Orwell was still standing in the doorway at 4:02pm.
Still scanning.
Still silent.
And Josie was still frozen.
Because now there was proof.
Physical proof.
That she wasn’t crazy. That this was real. That he remembered. That he _kept_ it.
The umbrella wasn’t just an umbrella anymore.
It was evidence.
The silence stretched.
Josie, dumbstruck at the umbrella. Orwell, blocking the door like a human firewall.
Then he spoke at 4:02pm.
“Are you going to stand there?”
Not mean.
Not impatient.
Just an actual question. Flat. Curious. Like he was genuinely calculating whether she planned to live in the doorway now.
Josie’s mouth opened.
“I— you’re— I can’t—”
She was trying to explain. That _he_ was in her way. That she physically could not walk through him. That thermodynamics was not about phasing through solid objects.
While she was stuttering, he moved.
One step.
Sideways.
Out of her way.
Like it was that simple.
Josie blinked.
The path was clear now.
She walked in.
Legs stiff. Heart loud.
She sat at the table at 4:03pm. Across from the umbrella.
He was still standing at the door.
Like a weirdo.
Not doing anything. Not saying anything.
And he left the door open.
Which was weird to her.
_Close it. Why would you leave it open? Is this a power move?_
Then he walked.
Slow. Deliberate.
Toward her.
Sat across from her.
The table felt smaller suddenly.
He looked at her.
“You should get your books out,” he said. “The others will soon be here.”
Josie flustered.
_The others?_
She asked herself.
_What others?_
Then the door opened wider at 4:04pm.
And a group of girls walked in.
About four.
Josie’s stomach sank.
Because these weren’t just girls.
These were _girls_.
The hot kind of girls.
Nails. Long. Acrylic. Probably expensive. Lashes. Full. Human hair. Bone straight. Curvy. Revealing clothing. Crop tops. Bodycon skirts. Perfume that hit before they did.
They giggled. Whispered. Looked at Orwell like he was lunch.
Then looked at Josie.
Up. Down.
And kept walking.
Josie sat there. In her oversized FUTA shirt. No nails. No lashes. No human hair. Just her bun and her meds and her umbrella trauma.
And she wondered.
_How are these students lagging behind?_
No.
Sorry.
She knew exactly how.
_Why won’t these students lag behind._
---
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