"Stop—let him through!"
My shoulder hit a backpack and I shoved forward because that voice belonged to Fabian and Fabian never begged. The lecture hall door was a gap in a sea of elbows, and every guy in the third-year bio class wanted the space right up front.
"Move!" someone yelled. "This is ridiculous."
"She's starting in five minutes!" a girl said at the top of her lungs, the words bouncing off concrete.
"Brooks, you okay?" Fabian asked at my ear. He was loud and grinning and already half-inches from the front row, like he had a plan to be noticed.
"I'm fine," I said. "Just keep your elbows to yourself."
"Promise nothing," Fabian said. He elbowed someone and laughed. That someone shoved back.
A tall kid stood by the aisle, hands in pockets, eyes locked on the doorway. He didn't shout. He didn't laugh. He didn't shove. He just watched like he could see a clock stop.
When Livia stepped into the hall, everything else stopped.
She held a slim laptop case in one hand and a paper cup in the other. Her hair was pulled back tight, nothing sloppy, nothing extravagant. She didn't look at the crowd. She looked at the podium, set the case down, and the sea of noise folded into an expectant hush like hands closing.
"You're late," someone called, and it sounded like an accusation, but no one moved to stand when she smiled
