Noted with Reservations

It was three in the afternoon. Inside the Architecture building, the only sounds were the low hum of old air conditioners and the occasional scratching of tech pens against tracing paper. This was the time of day when everyone stopped talking. Everyone was simply too exhausted to complain. At the far end of Drafting Room 402, I was slumped over my table. The caffeine keeping me stable was finally starting to wear off. "Xy, wake up," Reese, my seatmate, nudged me. I slowly lifted my head. I could feel the mark of the masking tape on my cheek from falling asleep on the edge of the table. "Is it over?" I asked, my voice hoarse. "Over? Submission is in two hours. Look at your work—if you drool on your floor plan, we're definitely going to fail." I looked down at the paper in front of me: the floor plan for Residential Project #2. It was clean enough, but I knew it lacked detail. I’m an Architecture student, but sometimes I wonder why I chose a course that requires millimeter-precision when my own life is just one big approximation. "I can do this," I whispered to myself, picking up my 0.1 tech pen. "Just a little more." But before I could even touch the pen to the paper, the drafting room door opened. It wasn’t a loud entrance, but it was enough to make everyone look up. A group of senior students walked in. In this building, they were known as "gods"—fifth-year students who looked like they never lacked sleep even though it was their Thesis year. And in the middle of them was him. Waeren. Even though we were still in college, his name was already a legend in the hallways. He was the student whose line weights were always perfect, whose scales were always right, and whose face was as cold as concrete. They walked between the tables to inspect our work. This was part of the department's mentoring program, where seniors checked our progress before the final defense with the professor. "Oh no, they’re coming this way," Reese whispered nervously, trying to fix her messy hair. Me? I didn't care. I just kept hatching my walls. I didn't need approval from a senior who thought he was the blueprint of a perfect human being. The footsteps stopped behind me. The scent of peppermint and fresh laundry cut through the smell of glue and coffee at my desk. "Miss Cruz," a calm, baritone voice spoke. I didn't look back. "Just a moment, Architect. I’m almost done." "Your door swings are inward, but your clearance is insufficient for the hallway width," he noted immediately. No hello, just straight to the technicalities. I slowly stopped and turned to face him. He stood there in a simple black polo shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had a clean haircut, no dark circles under his eyes, and was looking at my work like it was one giant mistake. "It fits," I replied, blunt and unfiltered. "The people living in that house are thin, Architect. They’ll fit in that space." I heard my classmates gasp. No one talked back to Waeren like that. Waeren slightly raised an eyebrow. He looked at me, and for the first time, our eyes met. His eyes were like a ruler, measuring exactly how much courage I had. "Architecture is about the user's comfort, not about your excuses," he said coldly. "Change it. You have two hours." "What if I don't want to?" I challenged. "To me, this is right. This is my artistic liberty." He took a step closer. He was so close I could feel his cold aura. He leaned down slightly to meet my eyes. "Artistic liberty is for painters, Cruz. Here, we build structures. And structures with errors... they kill people." He pulled a red pen from his pocket and, without warning, quickly marked a large 'X' over the door on my plan. My eyes widened. The plan I had stayed up for three nights to finish was ruined with red ink in a single second. "What the—!" "Fix it," he cut me off. "Or don't submit at all. I don't tolerate sloppy work in this building." He turned around and walked away as if he hadn't just ruined my life. My hands were shaking with anger. I was blunt, sure. But him? He had no heart. "Xy... are you okay?" Reese asked. My eyes were fixed on the red ink slowly soaking into the fibers of my tracing paper. It looked like blood—a wound in the middle of a week's worth of sleepless nights. "That jerk," I whispered through gritted teeth. "Xy, calm down. He might hear you," Reese nudged me. But I couldn't calm down. In the world of architecture students, a tech pen is an extension of your soul. Red-lining a plate without permission is like a slap in the face in front of a crowd. I looked over at Waeren. He was already at a third-year student's table, seriously reading a site analysis. He looked so composed, his clothes unwrinkled, while I looked like a mess possessed by an angry spirit due to lack of sleep. "Discipline? Comfort?" I muttered, mocking his voice. "He’s probably never experienced commuting in a jeepney at noon while carrying a T-square and three tubes. His brain is too high-end; he’s forgotten how to keep his feet on the ground." I grabbed my electric eraser. Its vibrating noise felt like it was echoing my anger. I slowly erased the red mark along with the door I had worked so hard on. As I did, I felt the other seniors watching me. They were probably wondering why I was talking back to the department’s "Golden Boy." The answer was simple: I was tired. And when a person is exhausted, they lose their filter. "You can still do it, two hours left," Reese encouraged, even though she looked like she was about to faint herself. "I can do this, Reese. But I swear, the day will come when that perfectionist marks an 'X' on his own life because of me," I replied while quickly redrafting the door. This time, I followed the standards. 900mm clearance. Minimum width for hallways. I poured in every standard he wanted. But as I drew, I couldn't get his face out of my head—the way he looked at my plate like it was just dirt on his shoe. By five in the afternoon, it was over. The drafting room was filled with the smell of submission: regret, anxiety, and spray adhesive. Everyone rushed to the front to submit. Carrying my final board, I walked toward the podium where our professor stood, with Waeren acting as the assistant checker. When I reached the front, I laid my board down with a bit of force. I wanted to make a statement, but I didn't want to get dropped by the professor for being too rude. I looked up. Waeren was looking right at me. "You fixed it," he noted. No "good job," no smile. Just a simple observation, like he was reading a grocery list. "I didn't want to kill anyone, Architect-to-be," I snapped back, emphasizing every word. "It would be bad if a perfectionist ghost started haunting me. It’s scary to think that even in the afterlife, you’d still be red-lining my coffin." A few students chuckled behind me. My bluntness was like a breath of air in the overly serious room. Waeren’s eyes flickered slightly behind his glasses. I couldn't tell if it was annoyance or amusement, but it vanished quickly. "Submit your board, Cruz. Don't waste the professor's time with your unnecessary commentary," he said before turning his attention to the next student. "You're welcome," I shot back before turning away. When I stepped out of the building, the cool air hit me. The sky was orange. But instead of appreciating the sunset, I only had two things on my mind: coffee and a bed. As I walked toward the tricycle terminal, I felt the weight of my T-square bag on my shoulder. I was digging for coins in my pocket when a notebook fell out of my bag. I picked it up immediately, but before I could put it back, a black car pulled up beside me. It was an expensive sedan that looked brand new. The window rolled down. It was Waeren. "Get in," he said. I frowned. "What? Why? I’ll just get your expensive seats dirty, Architect. You might red-line me if you see any dirt inside." "It's 5:30 in the afternoon, the campus is nearly empty, and you look like you're about to collapse on the pavement," he said, his voice flat but firm. "I'm not doing this out of kindness. I just don't want to explain to security why a student from my department is passed out on the street." I stared at him. I wanted to refuse. I wanted to say I could handle myself. But my knees were shaking from exhaustion, and I only had enough money for the two jeepney rides I needed to get home. "Fine. But don't complain if I fall asleep and snore," I said, opening the car door. I got in, and the smell of expensive leather and pine-scented air freshener immediately hit me. It was a world away from the smell of the drafting room. "Address?" he asked as he shifted gears. I gave him my address. The entire ride was silent, save for the soft indie music playing on his stereo. I looked at his profile while he drove. He looked so composed. So untouchable. "Why are you like that?" I couldn't help but ask. "What do you mean?" "Your perfectionism. Isn't it exhausting? The way everything has to be the right measurement, everything has to be flawless. It’s like you’re not human—like you’re a computer designed to erase people’s dreams." His grip on the steering wheel tightened. He didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed on the road, but I noticed his jaw tighten. "The world doesn't care about your effort, Cruz. It only cares about the result. If the result is flawed, everything else is irrelevant." "What a sad life," I whispered, leaning my head against the window. "Sometimes, it's in the mistakes where you find what's real. The raw stuff. The things that aren't forced." He didn't reply. Maybe he thought I wasn't worth talking to. Or maybe, my words hit home. Exhausted, I didn't realize my eyes were slowly closing. The last thing I remembered before sleep took over was Waeren’s cold voice whispering, "Sleep, Cruz. You're making too much sense for someone who's failing their minor plates."