Chapter 4: The Unwanted Variable
1412 Words
The atmosphere at the university was shifting. The usual smell of ozone and graphite was being replaced by the scent of fresh spray paint and the thumping bass of dance rehearsals echoing from the gym. Foundation Day was coming—the one week where the academic hierarchy took a backseat to booths, parades, and the most anticipated event of all: The Mr. and Ms. University Pageant.
In the STEM department, "school spirit" was usually treated like a bug in a program—something to be ignored until it went away. But the administration had issued a new memo: every Grade 12 section had to field representatives for the pre-college category.
"No. Absolutely not. My answer is as constant as the speed of light," Haizel said, crossing her arms so tightly her blazer wrinkled.
The STEM-12 classroom was in a state of chaos. Bea, the class president and a guy who possessed more charisma than the law should allow, was standing on a chair. Kofi, Haizel’s best friend, was standing next to him, looking at Haizel with a predatory, helpful grin.
"Haizel, look at the data," Bea argued. "We’ve surveyed every girl in this room. Most of them are too busy with the math olympiad or the dance troupe. You’re the only one left who can speak in front of a crowd without fainting, and let’s be real—you have the height and the face!"
"I am a researcher, Bea! Not a mannequin!" Haizel hissed.
"You’re a STEM student who just aced the hardest Physics recitation of the year," Bea added, throwing an arm around Haizel’s shoulder. "Think of it as a social experiment on public perception. Besides, we already have your partner.
The class voted, and it's unanimous."
Haizel felt a cold pit in her stomach. "Who?"
"Nyxel Arvin Lejano," Kofi announced.
From the back of the room, a tall, muscular guy with a million-dollar smile waved his hand. Nyxel was Haizel’s classmate—the "Golden Boy" of the Senior High. He was a varsity player, a consistent honor student, and the kind of guy who seemed to have a permanent spotlight following him. He was the polar opposite of the moody, quiet atmosphere of the Engineering Dungeon.
"Nyxel?" Haizel’s voice cracked. "He’s so... loud. Everything about him is high-frequency noise. I can't do it, Bea. Please."
"Too late, Haiz. The registration was submitted during recess," Bea said, ducking as Haizel tried to swat her with a folder.
The frustration bubbled up in Haizel’s chest. The thought of being on a stage, parading around with a guy who probably spent more time at the gym than in the library, was too much. Without another word, she grabbed her bag and stormed out of the room, ignoring Kofi’s calls about "rehearsal schedules."
She needed air. She needed to go somewhere where the "Foundation Day" fever hadn't reached yet. She headed for the Old School Garden, a patch of green behind the Engineering building that was usually neglected by everyone.
As she rounded the corner of a large hibiscus bush, she stopped dead.
About twenty yards away, sitting at a long stone table, was Morti.
He wasn't alone. He was surrounded by his 4th-year blockmates. The table was a disaster zone of laptops, open textbooks, and half-eaten bags of chips. Haizel stayed back, hidden by the foliage, her annoyance momentarily forgotten.
Morti looked different with his peers. He was the anchor—the one they all turned to when a calculation failed. He looked so stable, so sure of himself. In the dappled sunlight, the sharp angles of his face seemed less like cold marble and more like a sketch by an artist who specialized in "lonely genius."
And he's incredibly handsome, she thought, a traitorous blush creeping up her face. Watching him was like watching a master at work. He was calm, even when his friends were shouting about failing their plates.
She felt a pang of longing to go over there, but she didn't want to disturb that rare moment of camaraderie. Haizel turned away quietly and walked to a secluded wooden bench on the far side of the garden, hidden from their view.
She sat down heavily, the wooden slats creaking. The anger at Kofi and Bea was still there, but it was being dampened by the heat and the steady, rhythmic hum of Morti’s voice in the distance.
Nyxel Arvin Lejano, she thought bitterly. I bet he doesn't even know what a derivative is.
She opened her notebook to try and study, but the lines began to blur. The garden was peaceful—the sound of cicadas and the distant laughter of Morti’s group acted like a lullaby. Her eyes felt heavy. The late-night Capstone sessions finally caught up to her.
She leaned her head against the back of the bench. Just five minutes, she told herself.
Slowly, the world faded. Haizel’s breathing evened out, her notebook resting precariously on her lap as she drifted into a deep sleep.
Across the garden, Morti’s head snapped up. He had felt a shift in the environment the moment she entered. He watched her from a distance—small, exhausted, and looking completely defeated by the day.
"Uy, Morti, nakinig ka ba?" his friend asked.
"Take a break," Morti said abruptly, closing his laptop. "Ten minutes."
He walked toward the far side of the garden, his steps silent. He stopped a few feet away from the bench. Haizel was fast asleep, a stray lock of hair falling over her face. She looked vulnerable, stripped of her usual feisty energy.
Morti looked at her notebook. It was open to a page where she had scribbled "NYXEL = WASTE OF TIME" in giant letters, circled a dozen times.
A flicker of an unreadable emotion crossed Morti’s face. He looked at the sun, which was now shining directly onto her.
He didn't wake her. Instead, he stood there, shifting his broad frame so that his shadow fell over her, shielding her from the heat.
"Inefficient," he whispered, though his eyes were soft.
"Sleeping in a garden because of a classmate."
He stood there, a silent, living sunshade, protecting her sleep until his ten minutes were up. Before leaving, he pulled a chilled water bottle from his bag and placed it on the bench next to her, along with a neon-green sticky note.
> Drink this. Dehydration leads to cognitive decline. And your handwriting is becoming a mess—fix it. - M
The chill from the water bottle had started to create a small ring of condensation on the cover of Haizel’s notebook, the dampness seeping into the cardboard. She blinked, her vision swimming as the world returned in high-definition greens and browns.
"Hala..." she whispered, her voice thick with sleep. She sat up abruptly, her neck giving a painful c***k. Her notebook slid toward her knees, and she caught it just as she noticed the neon-green square stuck to the cover.
Her heart didn't just beat; it performed a violent, non-linear jump.
She read the note once. Twice. Three times. The handwriting was unmistakable—the same sharp, perfectly slanted strokes she had seen in the library. Cognitive decline. Dehydration. It was the most "Morti" way of saying I was here, and I saw you.
"He was standing right there?" she murmured, looking at the grass in front of her bench. She realized then that she wasn't sunburnt. The sun had shifted to an angle that should have been hitting her square in the eyes, but she felt cool. She looked at the height of the narra tree and the position of the sun, calculating the geometry of the shadows.
The tree couldn't have shaded her. He must have been the one standing there, blocking the light.
She gripped the water bottle. It was still cold—a premium brand from the convenience store near the Engineering building. He had spent his break, and his money, just to watch her sleep and keep her from getting a headache.
"Grumpy engineer," she smiled, a genuine, toothy grin that she couldn't suppress. She unscrewed the cap and took a long, refreshing gulp. It tasted better than any sea-salt latte.
The anger at Bea, Kofi and Nyxel hadn't disappeared, but it was now balanced by a strange, newfound data point: Morti cared about her "efficiency." And for some reason, that felt like the most important variable in her life.
- Writer
