Three.
1712 Words
The next class was uncertain.
That was the message circulating through the hallway after Professor Hensley dismissed us. Apparently the lecturer had travelled for a conference and there was a chance the session would be postponed. No confirmation. No official notice. Just academic chaos wrapped in whispers.
Camille and I walked side by side across the courtyard, the late morning sun warm against my skin. Students clustered in small groups, some heading toward the library, others toward the café. I should have been thinking about the ultimatum. About the end of the semester. About the clock that had started ticking somewhere in the background of my life.
Instead, something inside me snapped.
And I started laughing.
Not the polite kind.
Not the soft giggle I used when Camille told a joke.
I mean a full, uncontrollable, slightly unhinged laugh that bent me forward at the waist.
Camille froze mid-step.
“Elena,” she hissed under her breath.
I couldn’t stop.
It bubbled up from somewhere deep in my chest, wild and inappropriate and entirely out of place. A few students turned. Someone raised an eyebrow. One guy actually paused to stare.
Camille quickly clamped her hand over my mouth.
“She’s normal,” she announced to no one in particular. “Completely normal. Just stressed.”
I tried to speak but only another laugh escaped, muffled against her palm.
She dragged me forward.
“Stop it,” she muttered. “You’re embarrassing me.”
That only made it worse.
By the time we reached the campus café, I had tears in my eyes. I stumbled inside, still shaking with laughter, drawing curious glances from the barista.
Camille pulled out a chair and practically shoved me into it.
When I finally managed to breathe again, she folded her arms and gave me the deadliest glare I had seen from her in months.
“What,” she said slowly, “was that?”
I wiped under my eyes.
“I was laughing at reality.”
“That wasn’t reality. That was a breakdown.”
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment before meeting her eyes.
“I just realized something,” I said.
“Enlighten me.”
“I might actually be safe.”
She blinked.
“Safe from what?”
“From my parents,” I replied. “I mean, think about it. I’m their only child. They wouldn’t really force me. They wouldn’t hurt me like that. They just talk big. It’s intimidation.”
Camille’s expression didn’t soften.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I am convinced,” I insisted.
And then I started laughing again, though softer this time.
“Actually, no,” I said between breaths. “I’m not.”
She groaned.
“Elena.”
“My father is a politician,” I continued. “You know how he is. Discipline. Image. Reputation. He’s not exactly the type to make an empty declaration. If he says end of the semester, he means end of the semester. He might actually parade a man into our living room and say congratulations.”
Camille stared at me like I had lost my mind.
“You’re laughing about this.”
“I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because if I don’t laugh, I might scream.”
That silenced her.
The café hummed around us. Coffee machines hissed. Cups clinked. Students debated loudly over a table near the window. It was an ordinary day.
Except my life had been quietly rearranged that morning through a text message.
“I keep imagining it,” I continued, staring at the menu board but not really seeing it. “Some perfectly polished man with a firm handshake and a rehearsed smile sitting across from me while my parents nod approvingly.”
Camille leaned forward.
“You won’t agree.”
“You say that like you know me better than I know myself.”
“I do.”
I smiled faintly.
The barista called out an order and I stood to get our coffee. The simple act of walking those few steps, of wrapping my fingers around the warm paper cup, grounded me.
When I returned, Camille was still watching me carefully.
“I also laughed,” I said, handing her the cup, “because I briefly considered leaving law for literature.”
She choked on her drink.
“What?”
“I mean think about it. If my life is turning into a dramatic arranged marriage novel, maybe I should switch majors and at least write about it.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Of course I’m not serious. I love law.”
I did.
Even when it exhausted me.
Even when it demanded long nights and sharper focus than I sometimes had.
I loved the logic of it. The structure. The arguments. The way words could dismantle power or reinforce it.
Literature was romantic.
Law was control.
And right now, control was the only thing I felt slipping through my fingers.
I took a slow sip of coffee.
And then something clicked.
I narrowed my eyes at Camille.
“Why were you in my class?”
She blinked once.
“What?”
“You’re studying architecture.”
“Yes.”
“So why were you sitting beside me in a contract law lecture?”
She hesitated a second too long.
“It’s a borrowed course.”
I stared at her.
“A borrowed course.”
“Yes.”
“For architecture.”
“Yes.”
I leaned back.
“Why on earth would an architecture student need contract law?”
She shrugged too casually.
“Project management. Construction agreements. Legal frameworks. It’s relevant.”
I tilted my head.
“Relevant enough to sit through Professor Hensley’s monotone torture?”
She sipped her coffee, avoiding my gaze.
“Maybe.”
Suspicion crept in.
“Camille,” I said slowly, “are you secretly planning to get married?”
Her eyes snapped up.
“What?”
“Well, why else would you borrow a contract marriage course?”
“It’s not a contract marriage course.”
“It practically is. Half of what we study could apply to marital disputes.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You’re impossible.”
I grinned.
“You didn’t answer me.”
“I’m not getting married.”
“Yet.”
“Elena.”
I laughed again, but this time it felt lighter.
“Imagine if you get engaged before me. My parents would lose their minds.”
“Your parents already lost their minds.”
“Fair.”
For a moment, we just sat there, sipping coffee, watching the world move.
And something strange happened.
The weight of the morning eased.
Not because the ultimatum disappeared.
Not because the clock stopped ticking.
But because for that small stretch of time, I wasn’t alone with it.
Camille nudged my foot under the table.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “if they really try to choose someone for you, you could always scare him away.”
I smirked.
“Oh, I absolutely could.”
“Give me an example.”
“I’d interrogate him like a witness on the stand. Motives. Intentions. Financial records. Emotional history. I’d make him regret ever stepping into my living room.”
She laughed.
“That’s my girl.”
“Or,” I continued dramatically, “I could show up to dinner in sweatpants and quote case law until he excuses himself.”
“You’re not that unhinged.”
“Don’t underestimate me.”
She shook her head, smiling.
There was something comforting about planning rebellion in hypothetical scenarios.
It made me feel powerful again.
In control again.
As if the story of my life hadn’t suddenly been handed to someone else to write.
We drifted into random conversation after that.
About an upcoming assignment.
About a professor who clearly disliked half the class.
About a mutual friend who had dyed her hair a questionable shade of red.
Little things.
Ordinary things.
And just like that, the text messages faded into the background.
The ultimatum blurred at the edges.
I found myself laughing again, this time naturally, without hysteria.
Camille began telling me about a design project she was struggling with, gesturing wildly with her hands. I watched her, grateful for her presence.
“You know,” she said suddenly, squinting at me, “you laugh weird when you’re stressed.”
“I do not.”
“You do. It’s like villain laughter.”
I gasped.
“I am not a villain.”
“You sounded like one five minutes ago.”
I leaned across the table.
“If I’m a villain, I’m at least a stylish one.”
She grinned.
“That I’ll give you.”
We finished our coffee slowly.
The second class was officially cancelled by then. Students were dispersing in every direction.
As we stood to leave, I felt lighter than I had that morning.
Not because my situation had improved.
But because I had chosen, even if just for an hour, not to let it suffocate me.
Maybe that was my real rebellion.
Not dramatic defiance.
Not screaming arguments.
But laughter.
Refusal to crumble.
Refusal to become a tragic heroine before the story even began.
As we stepped back into the courtyard, the breeze lifted a few strands of my hair across my face. I pushed them aside and looked up at the sky.
Four months.
The thought returned, but it didn’t feel as sharp.
Four months to either find someone.
Or be found.
I nudged Camille.
“If I end up in an arranged marriage,” I said casually, “you’re not allowed to cry at my wedding.”
She snorted.
“I’ll be the loudest one there.”
I laughed again.
And for that moment, standing in the middle of campus with my best friend beside me, coffee still warm in my veins and the sun bright overhead, I allowed myself to forget the message.
To forget the ultimatum.
To forget that somewhere, decisions were being made about my future.
Because right then, I was just Elena Whitmore.
Twenty four.
Stubborn.
A little dramatic.
Laughing too loudly in public.
And pretending, very convincingly, that everything was still entirely under my control.
- Writer
