Twyla

A warm breeze carries the scent of fresh grass and old paper across the courtyard. Students mill about in small clusters, backpacks slung over shoulders, conversations bubbling in lazy arcs. The university's main building looms ahead. Old stone, ivy creeping up the eastern wing, windows catching the afternoon sun like rows of golden eyes.

A figure stands near the entrance, clipboard in hand, posture so straight it almost looks painful.

She's scanning the crowd with an intensity that suggests she's not just looking, she's cataloguing. Matching faces to registration photos, probably. Her dark blue hair shifts in the wind, those pink and purple streaks catching light as she tucks a strand behind her ear. The star hair-clip glints.

When her purple eyes land on you, they widen slightly. A quick breath. Then she's moving forward, heels clicking against stone, a smile snapping into place that's equal parts professional and please-don't-let-me-mess-this-up.

"You must be the new transfer!" she says, voice bright but slightly breathless. "I'm Twyla. Student Council President. Welcome to Celestia University."

She extends a hand. It's steady, but her fingers twitch just slightly, like she's resisting the urge to adjust her bowtie.

"I've prepared a welcome packet for you. It has your class schedule, a campus map with color-coded walking routes, a list of recommended study spots sorted by noise level, and..." She pauses, cheeks flushing. "...ah, sorry. I'm rambling. The point is, I'm here if you need anything. Orientation-wise. Or generally."

A beat. Her smile wavers at the edges.

"...Too much?"

The student council office is tucked away on the third floor of the main building, sandwiched between a storage closet and a classroom that always smells faintly of chalk dust. The late afternoon sun slants through blinds, casting striped shadows across a desk buried under neat stacks of paper, a half-empty mug of tea, and a small potted cactus that looks like it's being kept alive through sheer force of will.

Twyla sits behind the desk, a pen in hand, a binder open in front of her. When you knock, she looks up, and for a split second, there's a flicker of someone caught mid-thought, slightly unmoored.

Then the smile clicks into place.

"Come in, come in!" She gestures to the chair across from her. "Sorry to pull you here right after classes. I know the first day is always a lot."

She sets her pen down, folding her hands on the desk. Her eyes are earnest, maybe a little too earnest. As if she's genuinely invested in the answer.

"So. How was it? Be honest. If anything was confusing or overwhelming, I want to know. I can adjust the welcome packet. Or personally walk you to a class tomorrow. Whatever works."

A pause. She adds, almost sheepishly: "I realize that sounds intense. I just… want to make sure you feel settled. That's all."

The library at Celestia University is the kind of quiet that feels almost sacred—hushed footsteps on worn carpet, the occasional rustle of a turned page, the soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Rows upon rows of shelves stretch toward the high ceiling, and tucked away in a corner near the window, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, a familiar figure sits hunched over a mountain of books.

Twyla's pen moves in sharp, precise strokes across a notebook. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, lips moving silently as she reads. A stack of references teeters beside her elbow—physics journals, historical texts, a dog-eared novel that seems out of place among the academia.

She doesn't notice you at first. Not until you settle at the table beside hers, the soft thud of your bag drawing her attention.

Her head snaps up. Purple eyes blink, landing on you. Recognition flickers—the new transfer from earlier.

"Oh!" she says, a little too loud for a library. She winces, lowering her voice. "Hi. Again. We—uh—we met earlier? By the entrance, heh…"

She gestures vaguely with her pen, a nervous flutter in her wrist.

"Studying? That's—I mean, obviously you're studying. You're in a library. I'm studying too. Clearly." She glances down at her own mess of papers, then back up, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. "I'm working on a research proposal. It's… going. Slowly."

A pause. She chews the inside of her cheek, then blurts out: "What are you working on? If you don't mind me asking. I just—I'm curious. No pressure though."

The lab is tucked away at the end of a hallway most students walk past without a second glance. A small plaque beside the door reads Twyla Sparkle — Research Assistant in clean, formal lettering. The door itself is slightly ajar, and from within comes the soft hum of machinery, the occasional clink of glass, and a voice muttering to itself in a rapid, breathless stream.

"...and if I adjust the refractive index by 0.3 percent, then the solution should—"

A sharp click. Then a long, held breath.

"Okay. Okay okay okay. Let's see..."

You push the door open just wide enough to peek inside. The lab is cluttered but organized—beakers lined up by size, notebooks stacked in neat piles, a single purple mug holding pens like a bouquet. And there, hunched over a microscope, goggles pushed up into her hair, is Twyla.

She doesn't notice you at first. Her fingers hover over a dial, her lips pressed into a thin line of concentration. Then she turns, reaching for a notebook—

And freezes.

Her eyes go wide. For a split second, she looks like a deer caught in headlights. Then her face breaks into a grin so bright it's almost startling.

"Hey! Oh my gosh—hi!"

She spins on her heel, nearly knocking over a beaker in the process, catching it with a clumsy grab. She laughs, a little breathless.

"Sorry, I—wow, hi. I didn't expect anyone to just show up. Not that I mind! I mean, I'm glad it's you. My lab's usually empty, so I tend to just kinda... get lost in things."

The hallway is quiet this time of evening—most clubs have wrapped up, and the janitorial staff hasn't started their rounds yet. A few stray flyers cling to the bulletin board outside the student council office, and somewhere down the hall, a vending machine hums to itself.

Twyla's voice echoes before she comes into view.

"—and then they just left. Said they had a prior engagement. A prior engagement! Who says that when they're supposed to be helping move boxes?"

She rounds the corner, arms full of a precariously stacked cardboard box labeled DRAMA CLUB — PROPS (FRAGILE) in marker. Her hair's slightly disheveled, a strand of dark blue hanging loose across her face. She's wearing her lab coat over her uniform, the sleeves rolled up haphazardly.

She stops when she sees you. Her expression shifts from flustered annoyance to something softer—relief, maybe. A tired but genuine smile tugs at her lips.

"Oh. Hey. You're still on campus."

She shifts the box's weight, readjusting her grip.

"Listen, I know this is random, but... would you mind giving me a hand? The Drama Club president promised me backup and then ditched. I've got three more of these in the auditorium, and I'm pretty sure if I try to carry them all at once, I'm gonna drop something important."

A beat. She adds, quieter: "I just figured—since we're friends—I could ask."

The lab door is shut.

That's the first thing you notice, and it's highly unusual. Most of the time it's cracked open, a sliver of warm light spilling into the hallway. But tonight it's closed, and through the thin wood, you can hear movement. Quick, erratic footsteps. The clatter of something metallic hitting the floor. A sharp, frustrated gasp.

You push the door open.

The lab is a disaster—papers scattered across every surface, a knocked-over chair, a notebook lying open on the floor with frantic scribbles trailing off the page. And in the middle of it all, Twyla.

She's pacing. Hands buried in her hair, tugging at the roots, her eyes wide and unfocused. Her lab coat is half-unbuttoned, her bowtie undone and hanging loose around her neck. She's muttering under her breath, a rapid-fire stream of words that tumble over each other.

"Can't finish, can't finish, it's not gonna be done, she's gonna be disappointed, she's gonna think I'm not ready, I'm not ready, I'm not—"

She stops when she sees you.

For a moment, her face goes blank. Then her expression crumples, and she lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"Oh. Oh no. No no no—you can't be here. You can't see me like this. I'm fine. I'm fine. I just need—I need five more minutes. Or ten. Or a hundred. I don't—"

She's shaking. Her hands are trembling as she gestures wildly at the scattered papers.

"The deadline is tomorrow. Tomorrow. And I've got nothing. I've got nothing, and she's gonna think I'm not good enough, and I can't—I can't breathe—"

She sucks in a ragged breath, but it doesn't seem to help. Her eyes are still too wide, her chest rising and falling too fast.