TËSSÃ ãñd DARÆY: A Love Written with fire

Soon enough, Monday arrived—though, somehow, it felt like it took forever.

We were supposed to have a normal class, but the lecturer decided to spring a surprise test on us. It wasn't entirely unexpected, but the course reps had chosen not to announce it in the group, just in case the lecturer changed his mind. They didn't want to mislead anyone.

But once word got out—just one message in the group chat—people started rushing in from everywhere.

She had to be here.

There was no way she'd miss a test. She wasn't that reckless. Not after having a carry-over. No, she wouldn't make that mistake.

Would she?

My mind was both absent and present, flickering between reality and the chaos of my thoughts. The class grew larger by the minute—people who had originally planned to skip suddenly found themselves sprinting in, probably still groggy from sleep, as if an alarm had just gone off in their heads.

One message in the group chat was all it took. Test today.

And just like that, the floodgates burst open.

Before we knew it, the room was so packed that some students had to stand outside to write. It was almost comical—the desperate scramble to find a seat, the hushed murmurs of last-minute revisions, and the occasional "Abeg shift small" as people squeezed into whatever space they could find.

Then the test began.

For the first few minutes, the room was eerily quiet, the only sounds being the scratching of pens against paper and the occasional cough. It was actually peaceful—almost made you think you were in a serious academic setting.

Then, of course, the noise started.

At first, it was just whispers—tiny, careful exchanges of answers from one desk to another. But before long, the place had transformed into something resembling a bustling market square. People weren't just cheating; they were collaborating. Full-blown teamwork. Some were copying from people who had copied from other people, and those people had probably copied from another set of people—it was like a never-ending chain of academic crime.

And here I was, thinking that transferring into a more difficult course would finally put an end to all the nonsense of exam malpractice.

Boy, was I wrong.

I swear, some of these students deserved honorary degrees in strategic cheating. I saw one guy casually stretching like he had a cramp, but in reality, he was showing his answer sheet to the guy behind him. Another had his phone positioned so perfectly under his desk, you'd think he was conducting high-level espionage.

Back when I was an engineering student, things like this were as common as drinking water. In fact, it was almost an academic tradition. You had the regular noisemakers, of course, but then there were the real characters.

First, there were the ghosts—students who had never attended a single class but magically appeared on exam day like legendary creatures. No one knew where they had been all semester, but they showed up, looking determined.

Then there were the contractors—those who paid other students to write their tests for them. These guys were running full-blown businesses, hiring smart students like employees.

And, of course, we had the delegates—students who didn't just pay people to write for them, but actually hired people to attend school in their place. Lecturers would call their names during attendance, and some random, well-paid genius would answer.

But the real kings?

The ones who did neither of these things and still managed to come out with first-class honors. No one knew how they did it. No one saw them study, no one saw them cheat, yet somehow, their grades remained untouchable.

Honestly, I still haven't figured out their secret.

I thought moving to CHS would put an end to all this madness—that things would be stricter, that people would take academics more seriously. But clearly, I had been giving them too much credit.

Cheating, it seemed, was the real universal language of university life.

Soon enough, the test was over.

The lecturer had initially tried to maintain order, instructing everyone to submit their answer sheets in a neat, single-file line. But that lasted for all of two minutes.

It didn't take long before the whole thing descended into chaos.

Students who hadn't finished writing were still scribbling furiously, their pens moving at lightning speed as if sheer determination could alter time itself. Some were even writing for other people, passing sheets around like it was some sort of group project. A few brave souls were still sneaking glances at their notes, making last-minute edits right under the lecturer's nose.

It was complete anarchy.

Eventually, after much shouting, arguing, and general disorder, the lecturer managed to collect all the papers and stormed out, leaving behind a classroom full of exhausted, battle-worn students.

And then, it was just us.

I took a moment to observe the room. The aftermath of an exam was always fascinating.

Some students were glowing—thrilled that they had managed to write something and were already planning to go home and finish their interrupted sleep. A few were still hunched over their desks, flipping through their notes and comparing answers, their faces twisted in regret as they discovered their mistakes. And then there were the Omni-Brilliants—those annoyingly smart students who had finished long ago and were now grinning, satisfied that they could finally move on to the next subject.

And me?

I had only one mission today—to finally break this cursed silence between me and Tessa.

I scanned the room, searching for her, determined to end the ongoing cold war she had placed me in. But before I could find her, my eyes landed on Biancus and Light, deep in conversation about the test.

Or at least, Biancus was talking. Light… looked like she was contemplating her entire existence.

She sat frozen, her face pale, beads of sweat forming on her forehead and slowly dripping onto her pen like it was the last thing anchoring her to reality. Her hands trembled slightly as she nodded to everything Biancus was saying, though it was clear she wasn't actually listening.

Her eyes, instead, were locked onto the board where the questions had been written, as if staring at them long enough would somehow summon divine intervention.

"Exactly." (정확히. / Jeonghwagi.)

"Just as I thought." (내 생각대로야. / Nae saenggakdaeroya.)

It was obvious she was whispering silent prayers to God—probably something like:

"Lord, have mercy. I have no idea what I wrote. Half of it was copied. Please, just this once, help me pass. I swear, I'll study harder for the exams… maybe."

Meanwhile, Biancus was on the complete opposite side of the spectrum.

She sat with her pen balanced between both hands, laughing like someone who had zero worries in life. She wasn't stressed. She wasn't anxious. She was in full-blown vibes mode.

Why? Because she had a source to copy from.

Her mind was both present and absent at the same time. You could tell by the way her eyes kept wandering, looking for God knows what. Every few seconds, she would try to distract herself with random thoughts, only for something to remind her of the test again. And whenever that happened, she would suddenly grab onto Light's arm, squeezing her like they were in this together.

Light, of course, didn't respond.

But Biancus? She would just burst into laughter—like something was hilarious.

What was she praying?

"Lord, I know I copied… but please, just let me pass. Have mercy. Blind the lecturer's eyes so he marks everything as correct, because honestly? I have no clue if what I wrote was right or not."

And the funniest part?

Nobody around them seemed to notice. Some were too busy whispering their own silent prayers, while others… just didn't care.

I was laughing silently, my eyes sweeping across the room, scanning every face in search of her.

Tessa.

Had she already left?

She promised she would talk to me today. She wouldn't just break her promise, right? No, she wouldn't do that… would she?

My mind was all over the place, restless and impatient, thoughts bouncing between hope and doubt. Then, suddenly, two people walked up to me, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"Daræy, Daræy!" one of them called, grinning like they had been waiting all day to say my name.

"How was your first test as a physiology student?"

I turned to look at them, blinking slowly. I didn't even bother answering with words—just gave them a look that said 'Seriously?'

Clearly, it was great. Obviously.

Before I could say anything, Biancus jumped in, smirking.

"Hope it wasn't too hard. Hope you didn't drag your head too long—" she teased, and then burst into laughter, like she had just cracked the funniest joke of the year.

I turned to her, unimpressed.

"I should be the one asking you that question," I said, raising an eyebrow.

"You looked like you were in a hot spot back there."

The words were a little rude, but did Biancus care? Not one bit.

Instead, she gasped dramatically.

"Was it that obvious?" she whined, clutching her chest like I had just exposed her deepest secret.

Then, with a sigh, she admitted, "I swear, I have no idea what I wrote… but I know it was correct."

I stared at her.

"Funny. You have no idea what you wrote, but you know it was correct?"

That logic was so ridiculous, I couldn't help but laugh.

And just like that, Biancus took my laughter as agreement.

Well, everyone has their own way of interpreting things.

If that belief gave her peace of mind, who was I to ruin it?

But then, as my laughter faded, something more pressing returned to my mind.

"What about Tessa?" I asked.

Biancus tilted her head at me and casually said, "You didn't call her either."

My brain stalled.

"Wait, what?"

"Tessa's not around."

It felt like a dead-drop bomb.

Tessa wasn't here?

What the hell?

Did she just… miss the test?