Chapter 18
Student Council meetings were one of the few highlights of Riya’s week.
Their meetings were usually held on Tuesdays in the Bio Lab, a room divided by rows of long, heavy, black-topped desks. Riya
would arrive ten minutes early, taking it upon herself to rearrange some of the desks in a circle and place copies of the
agenda at every seat, the paper still warm from the printer.
Everything followed a familiar pattern: Mrs. Kang, their polite-but-firm adviser, would go around asking for updates. Flora,
in her secretarial duties, would type minutes at warp speed.
Normally, Riya would find comfort in the gentle rhythm of Flora’s typing.
Today, it grated.
Her thoughts kept drifting—Kian’s iced tea, the unread stack of books waiting in the library, the fact that she’d stayed up
until two a.m. rewriting her Caltech essay, convinced it was the worst thing she’d ever written. She’d woken up this morning
with her face pressed to her keyboard and a stress headache thudding behind her eyes.
So when Mrs. Kang called her name not once but three times, Riya nearly jumped out of her seat.
“I’m so sorry—what did you say?” she asked, blinking fast. Heads were already turning.
“I was asking about the flyers for the Talent Show,” said Mrs. Kang. “You said you’d have a draft ready today?”
Riya’s stomach plummeted. She’d completely forgotten.
And the worst part? She’d been the one to volunteer for the task.
Her pulse hammered in her ears as she scrambled for an excuse, something to explain this glaring lapse.
But Quin beat her to it.
“Oh crap, I forgot,” they said smoothly. “I told Riya I’d handle them. I had this whole design idea, but I didn’t finish in
time. My bad for not emailing ahead.”
Riya stared at them.
“I see,” Mrs. Kang said slowly. Her gaze lingered on Riya a moment longer than necessary.
“Well, I did notice the signup sheet by the library—there’s good turnout already. But we’ll still need flyers posted.”
“Got it, Mrs. K. I’ll work on it tonight,” said Quin cheerfully, shooting Riya a wink. “Sound good, Riya?”
It took Riya a second to respond.
Quin was covering for her. Quin, of all people.
The same Quin who had once emailed the principal with the subject line “urgent,” only to request two-hour lunch periods to account for the “poor, poor souls” with “irritable bowel syndrome” who “by medical necessity, need to eat slower.” And now here they were, catching Riya mid-flounder and acting like it was nothing.
“That . . . that sounds great,” she said tightly.
She was mortified. And beneath it, something worse: a tight, restless guilt she couldn’t quite shake.
Mrs. Kang moved on to the logistics of their upcoming senior trip to the art museum, but Riya barely heard.
Her eyes stayed on the agenda, the words all blurring together.
“Sooo . . .” Quin drawled, their mischievous blue eyes dancing like a cat who’d just caught a mouse. “Don’t you have something
to say to me?”
They strolled ahead, hands folded behind their neck.
Riya bit her lip, bracing herself. Truth be told, being in Quin’s debt was . . . irritating. But she supposed there were worse
fates.
“Thank you,” she muttered.
Quin turned around to face her, cupping their ear. “Mm, sorry, didn’t quite catch that.”
“I said thank you,” she repeated, glaring. “Happy now?”
“Oh, immensely.” Quin beamed. “But it’s all part of my presidential duties. Protecting my council. I’m so honorable, don’t you agree?”
“Uh-huh.”
Quin stopped walking suddenly. “But it’s not like you to forget something,” they said. “Juggling too much?”
“If I am,” Riya muttered, “it’s partially your fault.”
Quin shrugged. “True. But you do know you can always tell me when you’re at capacity, right?”
“I did, but—” Riya began, before trailing off. Had she ever actually said no? Had she ever even hinted that she was tired? To Quin? To anyone?
“Anyway,” Quin continued, “don’t beat yourself up over the flyer thing. Everyone knows how you’ve always put in a ton of work into everything you do.” They patted Riya’s shoulder. “But even you have limits.
You shouldn’t have to hold the world up by yourself.”
Riya’s eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”
Quin smiled faintly. “Life moves fast. If you don’t stop to breathe, you’ll miss it—or worse, break under it.”
Riya stared back, unmoored.
Was Quin . . . worried about her? She couldn’t imagine why. They ran in different circles: Quin, always surrounded by friends, a tangle of glitter and gaff tape and too-loud laughter;
Riya alone, or with Mel tethered to her side.
“You have too much free time,” she said.
“And you clearly don’t have enough.”
Before Riya could fire back, Quin was already turning away, their usual carefree grin sliding back into place.
“Later, Riya. Don’t forget to breathe,” they called over their shoulder as they wandered off.
Riya stood rooted to the spot.