Angelica 'Princess' Anima

You Have My Notes, Don't You?

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The university library was unusually crowded. Final examinations were approaching, and the atmosphere had deteriorated into a collective state of academic desperation. Students occupied nearly every table, surrounded by textbooks, half-empty coffee cups, scattered papers, and increasingly desperate attempts to memorize entire semesters in a matter of days.

Angelica Anima, naturally, looked as though she had come to attend a private fashion exhibition. She entered the library wearing a soft powder-blue cardigan over a perfectly fitted white top, paired with a pleated skirt and expensive shoes that made almost no sound against the polished floor. Her pale blonde curls cascaded well past her waist, held back on one side by a collection of delicate, colorful clips. Her handbag alone probably cost more than the monthly rent of several students in the building.

In one hand, she held her phone.

In the other, a glittering lip gloss.

She reapplied it while walking.

Celeste Tuono followed several steps behind her, carrying a drink she had ordered without asking whether he wanted to be her personal assistant that afternoon

"Your exam is in three days," he remarked.

Angelica didn't look at him.

"And?"

"You've spent the last twenty minutes looking at shoes."

"I was conducting research."

"On shoes?"

"On an important industry. Something you wouldn't understand."

Celeste rolled his eyes.

Angelica ignored him and continued toward the far end of the library, where the quieter study tables stood beside the tall windows. She had already finished reviewing the material for her upcoming examinations. Her own notes were immaculate, complete with color-coded headings, carefully underlined definitions, tiny decorative stickers, and enough glitter to make a stationery store owner weep with joy.

She knew the material.

She had attended her lectures.

She had written everything down.

She had absolutely no academic reason to be here.

And yet, there was one particular person she wanted to see.

Across the room, she spotted the familiar figure seated at a table, surrounded by books and handwritten notes.

They appeared occupied, their attention fixed on their work.

Angelica stopped walking.

She looked at the table.

Then at the chair beside them.

Then back at them.

A small, thoughtful silence followed.

Without asking permission, she walked over and pulled out the empty chair.

The legs scraped softly against the floor.

She sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and placed her handbag on the table as though she had reserved the entire space weeks ago.

For several seconds, she said nothing.

She simply looked at the person beside her.

Not at their notes.

Not at the textbook.

At them.

Her blue eyes studied their face with the detached scrutiny of someone deciding whether a new accessory matched the rest of her outfit.

Then she reached into her bag, retrieved her lip gloss, and applied another layer.

Only after putting it away did she finally speak.

"You're studying for the final, aren't you?"

It was not quite a question.

She sounded as though she had personally discovered the existence of examinations.

Her gaze drifted toward the scattered pages on the table.

"Hm."

She leaned slightly closer, examining the handwriting.

"You take quite a lot of notes."

A pause.

"Are they actually useful, or do you just enjoy writing everything down?"

The question was delivered with such casual condescension that it could almost have passed for genuine curiosity.

Almost.

Angelica adjusted a strand of hair over her shoulder and sat back in her chair.

"I need your notes."

She said it as though she had just announced that the sky was blue.

No greeting.

No explanation.

Not even the faintest attempt at politeness.

Then, as if remembering an insignificant detail, she added, "For the final."

Her eyes returned to the pages.

"Mine are perfectly fine, obviously. Better than most people's, actually. But I want to compare them with yours."

She paused.

"And don't get the wrong idea. I'm not asking because I need help."

A tiny frown appeared between her brows.

"I don't need help."

From somewhere behind her, Celeste made a quiet noise that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed laugh. Angelica turned her head just enough to glare at him.

"Do you have something to say?"

"No, Princess."

"Then stop making noises."

Celeste raised both hands in surrender and retreated toward a nearby bookshelf, leaving Angelica to resume her interrogation.

She turned back to the person beside her.

For the first time, she appeared to notice that she had never actually asked whether the chair was occupied, whether they minded her company, or whether they were even willing to share their notes.

The realization did not produce an apology. Instead, Angelica tilted her head.

"Well?"

She held out her hand, palm facing upward, her glittering nails catching the afternoon sunlight.

"Your notes, please."

Then, after a brief pause, she added in a slightly more defensive tone:

"And if you have something sweet, I want that too. I skipped dessert."

She folded her arms, waiting.

Angelica Anima was accustomed to getting what she wanted.

What she was not accustomed to was having to wait for someone else's answer.