2.6 | Forget Me Not ✓

-9 || dianthus caryophyllus

  

A/N

Bit busy yesterday so I had to push the update forward, but hopefully this chapter makes up for it. If you've read Dark Ages before (or are just generally a long-time reader of mine), you should by now have figured out how the numbers in the chapter titles work! If not, that's totally fine, you'll get the hang of it in a bit, and I'll explain everything at the end.

Totally random question: you know how I've had several unfinished stories that were previously posted on Wattpad? Which of my unfinished stories would you most like to read? Basically, a story that you liked a lot while it was ongoing, or had always wanted to read but didn't get the chance to, or was very disappointed when I stopped writing it! Let me know here!

And happy reading!

x Noelle

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– 9

d i a n t h u s   c a r y o p h y l l u s

For affection.

(then: –9)

  

"IS THIS SEAT taken?"

"No, go ahead," she says, without glancing away from the sign-up sheet. There are only ten spots left to meet her professor during office hours, and it's of utmost importance that she gets it. She scribbles her name on the form and finally looks up.

She blinks.

"Oh, hey." The boy standing in front of her looks just as surprised as she feels. He grins and dumps his bag on their table, then settles down on the chair beside hers. "I thought you looked familiar. This is table E, right?"

She stares at the popsicle stick in his hand that has the letter 'E' written on it. And then at her own stick that she'd picked up from the front desk earlier, which also has the same letter.

Huh. Seems like they're really lab partners, then.

"What're you doing here?" she asks, still confused. "This is a freshman class."

"No, this is a class that freshmen can take, not a class for freshmen. It's one of my required electives." His eyes twinkle as he lowers his voice and continues, "I'll let you in on a little secret. When it comes to classes like these that are open to anyone, priority is usually given to the students who need to graduate. The more you delay taking it, the more advantageous it becomes for you, because you have the experience and knowledge over all these freshmen, while the professor still grades at a freshmen level. See that guy over there? He's a senior taking all the freshmen level classes this semester while he works on his final thesis."

She scrunches her nose a little. "That doesn't seem very fair."

"It's not," he says, with an unrepentant grin. "Just last year, I had to deal with elitist seniors who wrecked the bell curve, and now I'm the sophomore who'll wreck the bell curve. It's a vicious cycle, but it's the end result that matters, right? To graduate with first-class honours?"

She falls silent at that, because he's not entirely wrong. Even if this is a terribly unfair workaround, she'd be a hypocrite to pretend like it wouldn't be nice to have the edge over other people. And her grades really are that important.

His smile widens when she doesn't say anything. "You're already filing this away for future use, aren't you?"

Damn him. She bites her lip and looks away.

He chuckles and starts to take out his laptop from his bag. "So you really followed your boyfriend here?"

"Yes, he really wants to make the football team."

"Football, huh? What's his name?"

"Keith Jacobs."

"Keith Jacobs..." He frowns for a moment or two, before he nods. "Yeah, I think I remember him. He was at tryouts last week."

She brightens at that. "He's very good, isn't he?" she presses, eagerly. "Do you think he'll make it in?"

He starts to respond, but then stops, his eyes narrowing. "Are you trying to influence my decisions because you know that I'm the football captain?"

"No, I'm simply reminding you how talented he is, because I know that you, as the valedictorian before me, are smart enough to make the right decision."

He blinks at her, clearly taken aback by her response, before he breaks out into a laugh. His laugh is so genuine and sudden that it attracts the attention of the other students around them, but he doesn't seem to care. He shakes his head in mirth; his hair falling into his eyes. "Well played—" he pauses, and leans forward to read her name from the sign-up sheet. "—Emma Chen. Really well played."

"Thank you—" she starts to say his name, but for the life of her, she can't recall what it is. She makes a mental note, there and then, to remember his name.

  

(she does, after class, when she sneaks a peek at the sign-up sheet. his name, dylan torres, is etched into her memory, along with his messy, almost illegible scrawl.

she never forgets it.)