Chapter 1.5: The Tuesday Slump
1422 Words
Tuesday arrived with the kind of grey, heavy sky that made Toronto feel like it was trapped inside a charcoal sketch. Elara’s alarm clock was a physical assault at 7:30 AM, and by 9:00 AM, she was trudging through the slush of Queen’s Park toward the Northrop Frye building.
Her first stop was her 18th-century Literature seminar. She had to hand in a hard copy of her analysis on The Castle of Otranto, a paper she had stayed up until 2:00 AM finishing—partly because of the research, and partly because she kept checking her phone to see if a certain accountant had sent any more updates on his laundry crisis. He hadn't.
"Vance! Wait up!"
Elara turned to see Leo, a fellow English major who looked like he’d been plucked straight out of a 1990s grunge band. He was clutching a cardboard tray of coffee like it was a holy relic.
"Tell me you finished the Horace Walpole paper," Leo groaned, falling into step with her. "Because I spent four hours writing about the giant helmet and I’m pretty sure I had a fever dream halfway through."
"I finished it," Elara said, offering a tired smile. "But I think I used the word 'sublime' so many times it’s lost all meaning. Coffee?"
"Bless you," Leo sighed as they ducked into the building's small cafe. They stood by the counter for a few minutes, joined by Sarah, a high-strung girl from their Milton class who was currently having a crisis over her thesis statement.
"I just feel like Paradise Lost is too big, you know?" Sarah said, stirring her latte aggressively. "How am I supposed to summarize the fall of man in twelve pages?"
"With a lot of caffeine and very little sleep," Elara suggested.
They chatted for twenty minutes about professors they hated and the exorbitant price of used paperbacks. It was easy, comfortable conversation—the kind Elara usually excelled at. But today, her mind kept drifting to the fourteenth floor of the library. She found herself scanning the crowd for navy-blue merino wool, which was ridiculous. Toronto was a city of millions; she wasn't going to run into him twice in twenty-four hours.
By the time 5:00 PM rolled around, Elara’s social battery was in the red. She had sat through three lectures, navigated a tense meeting with her academic advisor about her "lack of career focus," and her boots were currently leaking cold meltwater onto her socks.
All she wanted was a hot shower and the bag of salt-and-vinegar chips she’d hidden under her bed.
She pushed open the door to her dorm room, already halfway through saying, "Madi, you won't believe the day I—"
She cut herself off. Madi was there, perched on her bed as usual, but she wasn't alone. Sitting in the room’s only armchair—the one Elara had thrifted and painstakingly cleaned—was Chloe.
Chloe was a Fine Arts student like Madi, but where Madi was chaotic and kind, Chloe was polished and sharp. She wore a perfectly oversized blazer and an expression that suggested she’d just smelled something unpleasant. She and Elara had a history that consisted mostly of Chloe making "helpful" comments about Elara’s "unmarketable" degree.
"Oh," Chloe said, her eyes sweeping over Elara’s wind-whipped hair and damp coat. "The scholar returns. You look... windswept, Elara."
"It’s a hurricane out there, Chloe," Elara said, her voice tight as she kicked off her boots. "What are you guys doing?"
"Working on the layout for the winter gallery," Madi said, sensing the tension and trying to throw a blanket of cheer over it. "Chloe was just helping me with the proportions."
"Proportions are important," Chloe added, leaning back in the chair. "Just like perspective. I was telling Madi that some people just don't have the eye for what's actually... current. They get stuck in the past. It’s a shame."
Elara knew it was a dig at her Victorian obsession. She felt the irritation of the day—the cold, the advisor’s lecture, the fatigue—coiling into a ball in her chest.
"Well, some things are classics for a reason," Elara replied, heading to her desk to dump her books. "They have staying power. Unlike, say, a gallery layout that will be painted over in three weeks."
Chloe’s smile didn't reach her eyes. "True. But at least people look at the gallery. I imagine those old books of yours are getting quite dusty. Anyway, Madi, I should go. I have a dinner reservation at that new place on Bloor. You know, the one you have to actually know someone to get into?"
As Chloe gathered her things, she made sure to brush past Elara’s desk, knocking a stack of her carefully organized index cards onto the floor.
"Oops," Chloe whispered, not sounding sorry at all. "See you around, Elara."
The door clicked shut, and the room felt suddenly too small.
"She’s just in a mood because her last critique went badly," Madi said softly, hopping off the bed to help Elara pick up the cards.
"She’s a snob, Madi," Elara said, sinking onto her bed and burying her face in her hands. "And I’m tired, and my feet are wet, and I really didn't need to be told my life's passion is dusty today."
She reached for her phone, hoping for a distraction, and saw a new notification.
From: Julian Thorne
The sweater survived the rinse cycle. I’ve decided not to file for damages. Don’t let the Muggles get you down, Vance.
Elara stared at the screen. How did he know? He couldn't possibly know. But the simple, dry text was like a life raft. Her sour mood didn't disappear, but the edges of it softened.
"Who’s that?" Madi asked, eyeing the small smile on Elara’s face.
"Just the man of laundry," Elara said, her heart doing that strange, rhythmic skip again. "Checking in on his casualty of war."
Madi’s eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. "Wait, he actually texted you first? Julian 'The Ice King' Thorne sent a follow-up text that wasn't about a spreadsheet?"
"He’s not an ice king," Elara defended, though she felt the hypocrisy of her words given her own thoughts only an hour ago. "He’s just... precise. And apparently, he has a sense of humor about Himalayan salt."
"El, he’s totally into you," Madi squealed, flopping back onto her pillows. "Nobody researches oat milk acidity for a stranger unless they want to see that stranger again. It’s basically the modern-day version of a courtship dance."
"It’s a laundry update, Madi. Don't turn it into a Regency novel," Elara muttered, though she couldn't stop herself from re-reading the message. Don't let the Muggles get you down. It was a small, geeky olive branch, a far cry from the cold, calculated accountant she’d met in the stacks.
She looked over at her thrifted armchair—the one Chloe had just vacated—and felt a sudden urge to reclaim her space. She moved to the chair, curled her damp feet under her, and pulled her laptop onto her knees.
"I have that Business Communications elective tomorrow morning," Elara said, her voice dropping an octave. "Madi, what if he’s there? You said he sits in the front."
"Oh, he’ll be there," Madi said with a wicked grin. "Front and center. Usually looking like he’s about to buy the university and turn it into a hedge fund. You should wear that green sweater—the one that makes your eyes look like emeralds."
"I am wearing my cartoon cat hoodie and eating chips for dinner," Elara declared, though her mind was already drifting toward her closet. "I am not dressing up for a man who calculates the velocity of falling books."
She spent the rest of the night pretending to study, but her eyes kept darting to her phone. Julian didn't text again, and she didn't send one back. The silence felt like a held breath—the quiet moment before the first hill of a roller coaster.
As she finally drifted off to sleep, the sound of the Toronto wind rattling the old window frames, she didn't dream of Victorian ghosts or dusty libraries. She dreamed of slate-grey eyes and the faint, clean scent of cedarwood.
- Writer
