# The space between

Jarel's POV :

We were assigned the same group again.

Of course.

Some unlucky soul—probably the universe’s inside joke department—decided Clara and I needed more “collaboration practice.” And so, here we were. Four of us, one half-functioning projector, and a wooden board that hadn’t been cleaned since the invention of chalk.

Clara took the seat farthest from me. Classic.

I didn’t bother looking her way. Not because I was avoiding her. I just knew if I did, I’d stare too long. Or too blankly. Or just enough to make her think I cared—which I didn’t. Not visibly, anyway.

Sophie started the meeting. Something about breaking down the case study. I watched her mouth move. Nodded at the right times. Said “yeah” twice. Just enough to seem present.

Clara finally spoke. “Let’s start with the actual data before people begin throwing around theories like they’re building a fanfic.”

That was for me. Subtle, sharp. I let it slide. For now.

I leaned back, twirled a pen once between my fingers. “Interesting coming from someone who treats footnotes like fiction.”

Sophie coughed. A diplomatic wince.

Clara smiled. Brief. Polite. Poisoned. “Well, unlike some people, I don't rely on dramatic monologues to sound smart.”

Touché.

Everyone laughed. Light tension. Harmless banter. That’s what it looked like on the surface.

Beneath it? A cold war.

Minutes passed. We worked. Kind of. Clara wrote bullet points with a mechanical grace, like the pen was her sword and the notebook her battlefield. I watched the ink dry and wondered when exactly it had gotten this bad.

“You’re writing a bit too much,” I said eventually.

She didn’t look up. “And you’re contributing a bit too little.”

Okay.

That one stung.

The meeting wrapped up eventually. Reed said something awkward and optimistic. Margo made a joke about the tension in the room being measurable on the Richter scale.

Clara packed her things like a soldier stripping her gun.

As she walked past, her voice came low and clean:

“You know, you’re not the only one who can shut doors, Jarel.”

I didn’t even turn. “Yeah. But I’m the only one who didn’t pretend it was a window first.”

She paused.

Walked off.

And left me standing there, staring at a chalkboard that hadn’t been cleaned in weeks.

...----------------...

Later that night, I went to Sophie’s rooftop party wearing my school uniform. The top button on my shirt was already missing and the same pair of sneakers that had survived rain, mud, and thunderstorm. Everyone else had changed into something casual, effortless. I didn’t.

When Sophie opened the rooftop gate and blinked at me, I just shrugged. “Didn’t get the memo. Or the laundry.”

She laughed and waved me in. “You’re lucky you’re weirdly handsome, Jarel.”

I gave her a half-smile — just enough to pass as human. Charm’s cheap when you’ve got options. I just had a clean collar and decent timing.

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