Chapt 2

I stared out the rain-speckled window of the café, mop in hand, and water bucket sloshing at my feet. The neon sign buzzed above me—“closed”—like it had any right to be cheerful. Outside, students walked past in pairs, laughing under umbrellas on their way home from study groups…

While I was stuck here. I hated this. I hated how my boss made me stay late again, just because someone didn’t show up.

“Cover the shift,” he said. “You need the hours.”

But what about my entrance exam?? The library closed at nine—I missed it again.

My notes were still in my bag, buried beneath aprons and receipt rolls. And now all I could do was wipe down tables no one even sat at anymore. Rain tapped harder against the glass like time was slipping away—one drop at a time—and I just stood there… mop dripping onto tile… hating every second of it. Not because cleaning was beneath me—but because I wanted more. And right now? It felt like this mop would never let me go.

But then celines voice crept in, calm and certain, like she’d already solved everything for me. Just take the answer key. You need this. You work too hard to fail.

I hesitated. I remembered pushing back, saying it wasn’t right—but even then, the idea had lodged itself in my head. After endless shifts of being yelled at by strangers, of apologizing for things that weren’t my fault, I was so tired of doing everything the hard way. Maybe this wasn’t cheating. Maybe it was balance. Compensation.

I checked the time. My hands felt cold, but they didn’t shake.

“It’s just once,” I told myself. “I’m not thinking clearly anyway. I haven’t slept.”

The excuse fit too well. My lack of sleep, my job, my exhaustion—they lined up neatly, like reasons instead of warnings. I stood up, my chest tight, not with panic but with something duller. Acceptance.

If this choice was wrong, I could blame the night shifts, the way work drained me until there was nothing left but survival. And with that thought, I moved, deciding to do exactly what celine had suggested.

I closed the café and rode off my bike and went to school.the gate was left unlock and went inI didn’t fight the security system. I didn’t challenge it.i avoided it

At the back of the building theres branches reaching close to the faculty office . I climbed slowly, bark rough under my palms, each movement measured. No rush. No panic. I kept reminding myself: quiet, ordinary, invisible. The window waited, dark and patient.

Then I was inside.

The office smelled like paper and dust and old air, nothing dramatic, nothing dangerous. Just a room that trusted it would be untouched. I stood there for a second longer than I should have

I slipped inside the window, heart pounding as I scanned the room. The desk drawers seemed a likely spot: answer keys, tests, old rubrics, extra pens. I darted forward, pulling open the top drawers. Empty. Damn.

I tried the next one—nothing. The third, fourth, fifth—nothing at all. Just papers, paperclips… one drawer had a jar of hard candies, but no keys in sight.

My heart pounded as I crouched beside the teacher's desk near window, fingers trembling slightly as I reached for the first drawer—locked. I bit my lip and glanced over my shoulder. The hallway was still quiet. Too quiet. I pulled out a paperclip from my pocket—bent it carefully with shaking hands. Please work… please work… A soft click. The drawer slid open. Inside: stacks of old quizzes, graded essays with red marks bleeding through paper… and a stack of envelopes labeled

"Final Exams – Do Not Open Until Test Day." My breath caught. There it was—typed neatly in bold at the top of one sheet: "Answer Key – entrance exam (Confidential)"

I stared at it. One hand hovered over the page. This was it—the shortcut to passing, to keeping up with everyone else who had tutors or time or parents who helped… But all I had was this moment. And me—with a bent paperclip and a conscience suddenly screaming louder than silence ever could.

For a brief second, I thought it worked.

Then the air shifted.

“You know,” a voice said softly behind me, “confidence only works if no one’s actually watching.”

My heart dropped straight to my stomach.

I turned—and there he was.

Beautiful in the most unfair way. Brown hair slightly messy, like he didn’t bother taming it because he never had to. Green eyes sharp and clear, the kind that missed nothing, now fixed on me with a mix of curiosity and disappointment. He was close enough that I could smell clean soap and something faintly warm, grounding—real.

I froze. Completely. Caught mid-thought, mid-excuse, mid-lie.

… he didn’t look real. He looked holy. Like an angel sent not to save me—but to witness my fall.

“So,” he said quietly, almost kindly, “want to explain this part?”

My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

I wasn’t tired or clever or desperate anymore. I was just caught. Red-handed. Seen.

And the worst part wasn’t that I’d failed the plan.

It was that he was looking at me like he expected better—and somehow, that hurt more than any punishment ever could.

My mind went blank.

One second I was standing there, trapped in the weight of his gaze, and the next all my thoughts scattered like paper in a storm. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to explain. Every excuse I’d rehearsed evaporated, leaving nothing but panic clawing up my throat

“I don’t owe you explanations. “I glared at gim

I stood up, my chest tight, not with panic but with something duller. Acceptance.

If this choice was wrong, I could blame the night shifts, the endless calls, the way work drained me until there was nothing left but survival. And with that thought, I moved, deciding to do exactly what celine had suggested.

He looked at what I was doing, then back at my face, one brow lifting just slightly. No raised voice. No drama. That somehow made it worse.

One second I was standing there, trapped in the weight of his gaze, and the next all my thoughts scattered like paper in a storm. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to explain. Every excuse I’d rehearsed evaporated, leaving nothing but panic clawing up my throat.

Move.

The word screamed in my head.

I bolted for the door.

He stepped into my path, instinctive, not aggressive—just surprised—and that was enough to snap something in me. I didn’t think. I couldn’t. I shoved past him, shoulder hitting his chest harder than I meant to, the contact shocking and real.

“Hey—” he started.

Too late.

My hands were shaking so badly it took two tries to get it open. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t bear to see his face—confusion, anger, disappointment, anything.

I ran.

Down the hall, lungs burning, heart hammering like it was trying to escape before I could be held responsible for anything else. The door slammed behind me, the sound echoing far too loudly in the quiet building.

Only then did it hit me: not relief, not freedom—just the sick certainty that whatever I’d done, whatever I’d taken or tried to take, I’d crossed a line I couldn’t sprint my way back over.