The shriek of the alarm split the silence of Aryan Carter's tiny dorm room."Shit—it's already time! I almost missed this test!" he groaned, tumbling out of bed.
Five frantic minutes later, the bathroom mirror showed a boy halfway between disaster and effort. He dragged a comb through still-damp hair, shrugged into a soft grey T-shirt, dark jeans, and sneakers.
A quick spray of cologne, a toothbrush clamped between his teeth, and he was out the door, backpack banging against his shoulder.
Outside, the city air was cool and bright. He jogged to the corner, flagged a taxi, and sank into the back seat with his phone clutched like a stopwatch.
Fifteen minutes of traffic and self-reproach later, the university gates appeared. He hurriedly tossed the driver "Thanks!" and sprinted across the courtyard.
Inside the lecture hall, dozens of heads turned as the door banged open.
Professor Cowel didn't look up from the neat stacks of test papers. "Mr Carter," he said without pause, "punctual as ever."
Aryan grinned, trying to catch his breath. "Morning, Professor,do you miss me?"
A few students laughed. Cowel's gaze cut the noise short."Find a seat."He said and Aryan dropped into one halfway up the rows, ignoring the muttered teasing around him.
He'd been here before late, unprepared, armed only with charm. The professor's steady movements at the front of the room felt almost hypnotic; chalk, paper, precision.
Cowel distributed the last test, stepped back, and said, "Begin."
A rustle of paper followed. Aryan looked down at the first question. It was easy—almost insultingly so. He could do it in thirty seconds, but that wasn't the point. His pencil hovered above the page. Around him, students bent over their work, brows furrowed, pens flying.
He started to write, intentionally skipping steps, swapping signs, turning logic into chaos. You could try, a voice whispered. But what's the fun in predictable?
By the time he reached the second page, he was half-amused, half-ashamed. This was his ritual: sabotage by creativity. He could almost feel Cowel's unseen disappointment waiting for him at the end.
"Five minutes remaining," came the professor's voice, calm and absolute.
Aryan scrawled a last wrong answer, leaned back, and whispered to the girl beside him, "Either genius or disaster."
"Which one?" she asked.
He smiled. "Depends who's grading."
The bell rang after an hour and 30minutes. Chairs scraped, papers shuffled. Aryan waited until the line at the desk had thinned, then strolled down, exam in hand.
Cowel accepted it, skimming his eyes at the first page. He tightened his brows and sighed.
"Did you even attempt this seriously, Mr Carter?"
Aryan tilted his head. "Define seriously."
The pause that followed was louder than any shout. Finally Cowel said, "We'll discuss this after results."
Aryan gave a mock salute. "Can't wait."
He said and left the room to the echo of his own bravado.
*****
Aryan's name sat almost at the bottom—an unmistakable F beside it. He stared at it, expression unreadable, then tore the page from the noticeboard and folded it into his pocket.
The hallways felt narrower that afternoon. Conversations hushed as he passed; a few students smirked, others looked away. He found his friends outside under the oak trees, comparing marks.
"How bad?" someone asked.
"Epic," he said. "They'll study my failure in museums."
Laughter rippled through the group, but it didn't warm him. He stretched out on the grass, eyes closed against the sun, trying to convince himself he didn't care. The truth pressed heavier than he liked to admit: he'd done it to himself, again.
When the shadow fell across him, he opened one eye. Professor Cowel stood there, a folder tucked under one arm. The surrounding chatter died instantly.
"Mr Carter," Cowel said. "A word."
Aryan pushed himself up, brushing grass from his jeans. "Can it wait? I'm enjoying the view."
"It can't."
He followed the professor back into the building, trying not to notice how quiet the corridor became behind them. Cowel's office smelled of chalk dust and coffee. Books lined the walls like disciplined soldiers. He gestured for Aryan to sit.
Cowel slid the marked paper across the desk. Red ink bled through almost every margin. "You failed spectacularly."
"Thanks," Aryan said, forcing a grin. "At least I'm consistent."
"That's not consistency," Cowel replied evenly. "That's surrender."
Aryan looked at the mess of red lines. "You ever think maybe I'm just not cut out for this?"
Cowel studied him for a long moment. "You are. That's what makes it so disappointing."
Something in the quiet tone landed harder than anger would have. Aryan slouched deeper in his chair. "So what now? You expel me?"
"Not yet." Cowel folded his hands. "One more test. One. If you put in genuine effort and fail, I'll accept it. But if you turn in another mockery like this, I'll recommend removal from the program."
Aryan let out a low whistle. "High stakes."
"They're your own doing."
He tried for a smirk, but it came out thin. "You really think I'm pretending?"
"I know you are," Cowel said. "Your mistakes are too symmetrical. Wrong, but elegant."
That made Aryan laugh despite himself. "Elegant failure. I'll add that to my résumé."
Cowel didn't join the smile. "You're wasting potential, Mr Carter. And time—mine and yours. Consider this your final chance."
The clock on the wall ticked in the silence that followed. Aryan finally stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Alright, final chance taken under protest."
"You have a week to prepare."
"For what?"
"The next exam."
"Fantastic," Aryan said dryly. "I'll try not to decorate it this time."
Cowel picked up a piece of chalk and turned toward the board, already writing notes for another class,Dismissed.
Aryan lingered a second, eyes tracing the careful precision of the professor's handwriting.
He wanted to say something flippant, something to erase the strange weight in his chest, but the words didn't come.
He left the office, the hallway stretching out before him in polished silence. Students passed in pairs, their voices a blur.
He walked slower than usual, the folded test paper crinkling in his pocket.
When he started down the path, the echo of the professor's voice followed him:
"You're wasting potential, and time."
He kicked at a pebble, watching it skitter ahead."Yeah, well," he muttered, "it's my time to waste."
Still, his steps slowed. The grin that usually came so easily didn't appear this time.
He jammed his hands deeper into his pockets, squared his shoulders, and kept walking;pretending, as always, that he didn't care.