Astar

Chapter 5. Shining to others, I burn myself | Aliis lucens uror

... vitia nostra quia amamus defendimus et malumus excusare illa quam excutere. Satis natura homini dedit roboris si illo utamur, si vires nostras colligamus ac totas pro nobis, certe non contra nos concitemus. Nolle in causa est, non posse praetenditur.

... it is because we are in love with our vices; we uphold them and prefer to make excuses for them rather than shake them off. We mortals have been endowed with sufficient strength by nature, if only we use this strength, if only we concentrate our powers and rouse them all to help us or at least not to hinder us. The reason is unwillingness, the excuse, inability.

— Moral Letters to Lucilius, Letter CXVI

"I don't get it. What are they waiting for?" I examine the contents of the plate instead of eating.

"Well, they won't go as deep into the research as you did. They may will mostly need a week." Nate remarks aptly.

What he doesn't know is that it might take me weeks to make everything perfect again. I'm going to need his help again. And if the others don't move quickly, it's all gone. Circles of hell, which have not yet paid off with anything other than me being exempted from the history exam.

"Let's meet in the library at the same table at one o'clock." I leave before I finish my lunch.

The dark corridors of the adjacent university building — where I have only been for the second time in my life — seem even more confusing. The first time, we were here together, but now it's just me and my empty stomach. It'd be better to find a guard, but I don't know where he is either. As fate would have it, someone taps me on the shoulder. Turning around, I see in front of me a tall, thin guy with dyed hair the color of... autumn? The strands falling over his forehead randomly shimmer with shades from ripe wheat to red maple, which goes well with his green eyes. His hair is artfully disheveled just to match the style: a stretched torn sweatshirt, black trousers with chains and patches, and sneakers, as if he had been brought here straight from the 2000s.

"Hey, you're Florence, right?"

"You can call me Flo. Sorry, do we know each other?"

"I'm Alex, the president of the third year. We haven't been introduced to each other." He holds out his hand to me for a handshake. It all seems kind of old fashioned: outside of the university, even in private companies, people get away with a simple 'good afternoon', but here you can feel the atmosphere of a completely different culture, as if the university is our kingdom — a state with its own rules and laws.

"It's very nice to meet you!" I reply, and his radiant smile enlivens me a little.

"Hey, you don't seem to be in the presidents' chat."

"You have such a chat?" Stupid question, it must exist.

"Take out your phone, I'll add you. And write down my number."

We exchange contacts, and once again I thank fate for such accidents. Or it's pure luck.

"It's a pity you weren't at our party that we held right before that meeting. The heads of the faculty were there, presidents and their deputies."

"Zeke didn't tell you? He already knew by that time that I became the president."

The corner of his lips rises, and he squints reminding me of a fox or some small predatory animal. "What a sly dog. He should have entered the military academy to be a spy with such a talent for hiding trivial things."

This comment takes me by surprise. So he knows how to keep secrets even from those he hangs out with – I'm making a mental note.

"Now I'm offended that he didn't invite me."