CHAPTER FOUR: SHIFTS
1114 Words
I hadn’t seen him for days, which is impressive, considering we live in the same apartment. It became like a silent sport.
I left early and he left earlier. I came back at odd hours, his shoes would be gone, and his gym bag would disappear.
The kitchen would smell faintly of something edible and smug. It was like living with a ghost who protein-shakes. And I hated that I noticed but happy I was, some peace and quiet at least.
I had just finished having my afternoon lectures, and I was walking towards the grass to sit down and get some air and inspiration, when Karl spotted me before I could pretend I hadn’t seen her.
She was sprawled dramatically across the grass outside the humanities building, notebook open on her stomach, pen between her teeth like she was auditioning for a tortured-poet documentary.
“Olandria!” she called, squinting at me. “You look…combustible.”
“I am peaceful,” I said, dropping my bag beside her. She stared. “You look like someone who lost an argument to a mirror.”
I sat down harder than necessary. She always read me right. “We had a discussion.”
“Oh God,” she whispered, sitting up instantly. “A discussion-discussion?”
“Rules,” I said flatly. “He thinks the kitchen belongs to him in the mornings.”
Karl gasped like I’d told her he’d declared war.
“The audacity.”
“I know, right? I doubt he could cook to save his head.”
“Even yummier than ever…” she moaned with dreamy eyes. And there I was thinking she stood with me.
She leaned closer, eyes glittering. “Did you yell?”
“I do not yell.”
She blinked slowly at me, giving me a “really girl?” Look.
“I raised my voice with structure.”
She grinned. “And?”
“And then he smirked.”
Karl clutched her chest dramatically. “Not the smirk.”
“The smirk,” I confirmed darkly. “And then I slammed my door.”
“Romantic.” She flew her hands in the air as though very satisfied and pleased with my troubles.
“It was not romantic.” I retorted sharply.
“It’s giving unresolved tension.”
“It’s giving an eviction notice.”
She studied my face carefully, pen tapping against her lip. “You haven’t seen him since?” I hesitated, which was enough of an answer for her.
“Wow,” she murmured. “So now you miss the irritation.”
“I do not miss anything.”
“You absolutely do,” she sang, while giving me a once over. “You’re twitchy.”
“I am stressed.”
“About Ernest?”
“About my thesis,” I snapped, maybe a little too quickly.
She softened then, just a little. I hated snapping at her. “Okay. What happened?”
I laid back on the grass and stared at the sky. “It’s presentation season soon,” I muttered. “Final defense. Everything has to be perfect.”
Karl nodded slowly. She understands what I mean because she's also doing her final thesis only that she writes poetry; chaotic, emotional, spill-your-guts-on-paper type things. She thrives in ambiguity. I on the other hand need structure, control and clean lines.
“I swear,” she said, “if Ernest distracts you from graduating…”
“He’s not distracting me.” I defended myself. Well, it was true at least. The least he’s doing currently is distracting me since I haven't spoken to him. She raised a brow at me. “ Fine, he’s…background noise.”
“Loud background noise.”
I turned my head to glare at her and she laughed.
We stayed there another ten minutes, sun warm on our faces, with students moving around us in clusters of laughter, stress and caffeine. Then she rolled onto her stomach, scribbling into her notebook.
“I have a workshop,” she said. “We’re tearing apart my short story today for that competition.”
“Fun.”
She grinned and added sarcastically,“Writers enjoy suffering.”
“I paint suffering.” I nudged her playfully.
She bumped her shoulder into mine. “Call me if you commit murder. I’ll help you bury the body.”
I grinned at her, “Appreciated.” She knows I couldn’t hurt a fly if I wanted to.
We parted at the stone steps; her toward the literature wing, me toward the art building. And that’s when my stomach started tightening.
Studio Hall always smells like turpentine and panic this time of year. Students hovered over canvases like bees on flowers. The air hummed with whispered critiques and exhausted ambitions.
My thesis lecturer, Professor Andrey, stood near the far wall, glasses perched low on her nose scanning a clipboard. She spotted me immediately as I walked into the sculpting outlet.
“Olandria. Good. I needed to speak with you.”
My pulse dipped. That tone never means “congratulations.” I walked over, clutching the strap of my backpack filled with my literal life. “Yes, ma’am?”
She adjusted her glasses. “There’s been a development regarding the thesis defense schedule for the art department.”
My fingers tightened around the straps.
“It’s been moved forward by two weeks from now.”
My brain stalled. “… Forward?”
“Yes. The department is accommodating a new external critic joining the panel.”
The words landed slowly and heavily. “Who?” I asked before I could stop myself.
She gave me a small look. “A significant contemporary curator. Very selective. This is an opportunity for you, Olandria.”
Opportunity. That word tastes like pressure.
“So…will we present earlier or what?” I asked carefully.
“Kind of though the exact date will be made known to you via email. Which means I need your final composition drafts by Thursday.”
Thursday! It was Monday. Four days away. I swallowed hard.
“I thought we had three weeks.”
“You did,” she said calmly. “Now you don’t.” Around us, someone dropped a metal palette. The clang echoed too loudly. My chest felt tight, like someone had adjusted the room’s oxygen levels without asking me.
She sighed and placed a hand on my shoulder, “You’re capable,” she said, softer now. “But you must focus.”
Focus. All I could do was nod. Of course, I nodded, what else was I going to do? I'm literally juggling school, my thesis, work and my health. Of course, I'm focused!
- Writer
