The smell of roasted beans lingered on Ryan's hands long after his shift ended. He hated that smell. It clung to him, to his clothes, his bag, his skin. But the café paid enough to cover what his father never could: rent, textbooks, and the late-night meals he pretended were dinner.
When he finally made it out of the café that night, the sky was already the color of dull metal. He pulled out his phone to check his GPA again, as if the numbers might have changed in the past few hours. They hadn't.
2.4.
His scholarship required a 3.0.
Between his early café shifts and late delivery runs, lectures had started to feel optional. Most times, he simply couldn't make it. Lecturers here didn't repeat classes, and catching up alone was nearly impossible. The university — Westhill College — was a world built for the wealthy, a Westernized bubble in the heart of (lets not use the Nigerian setting anymore). And for someone like Ryan, who had to work for every meal, every textbook, every quiet hour of sleep — it felt like playing a game already rigged against him.
His roommate Ethan never understood it. Ethan wasn't rich, but he was comfortable enough to live like it — middle ground. He loved talking, especially about people, and lately, that "people" was always one person: Adrian Val, the class representative of the higher-level Business Administration class.
Ethan followed him on Instagram, reposted his pictures, and could narrate his club nights from memory.
"Bro, you don't get it," he'd said one night, sprawled on his bed. "Adrian Val is literally the standard. Dude's got everything — brains, money, face. If I had half his luck, I'd never stress again."
That day, the air felt thick as he walked back through the university gate. Westhill College gleamed under its fluorescent street lamps — quiet, polished, like a model city tucked away from the rest of Nigeria. Even the pavement looked too clean for someone like him, a boy who spent most of his evenings dodging traffic on delivery runs.
He took the stairs two at a time when he reached his hostel, his legs sore from hours on his feet. Inside, his roommate Ethan was sitting cross-legged on the bed, headphones hanging around his neck.
"You look like death," Ethan said.
Ryan said nothing. He looked like droplets were about to fall from those large brown almond eyes.
"Results came out, didn't they?" Ethan pressed.
The previous day, Ryan had gone on and on about the results being released. Ethan already knew he wouldn't meet the cutoff , and Ryan knew it too. When Ryan talked too much about something, it was always from anxiety. Ethan had told him to take the next day off work, but Ryan had insisted on going in anyway. You should have just listened, Ethan thought. Well, see who looks half-dead now.
Ryan just sat at the table, head buried in his arms. He wasn't saying anything. Ethan knew him well enough. They'd shared a room for four months, and when Ryan was down, he shut off completely unless pushed.
"What's your score? 2-point? 1.5? Or just a pass?" Ethan tried to lighten the mood.
Ryan tossed his phone onto the table. "2.4," he muttered, barely audible.
Ethan winced. "That's not entirely bad."
Ryan raised his head. "What do you mean it's not entirely bad? It's very bad, Ethan."
There was silence for a while, broken only by the hum of the ceiling fan. Then Ethan asked quietly, "So what are you going to do?"
"I don't really know. I've thought about it, and I can't figure out where to adjust. I can't quit the café or the chicken delivery job…"
"Ryan, you should get tutoring," Ethan interrupted. "Ask Adrian."
Ryan frowned. "Who?"
"I'm serious," Ethan said. "Ask Adrian Val to tutor you. He's not tutoring anyone at the moment, so he's the best fit. You need someone like him."
"I don't need anyone like him," Ryan muttered and climbed up his bunk, pulling the blanket over his head and plugging in his earbuds. He knew Ethan would keep talking about Adrian Val, and he didn't want to hear any more. He didn't like how easily Adrian's name rolled off Ethan's tongue, or how often he came up in conversation. Something about that constant praise made Ryan uneasy.
Still, as he lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, Ethan's words replayed in his head. Adrian Val. Class representative. Perfect student. The one everyone seemed to admire. Ryan didn't admire him; he didn't even know him. But the thought of depending on someone like that — someone from a completely different world — made his chest feel tight.
He tried to sleep but couldn't. He kept thinking about his GPA, the scholarship letter that said "failure to maintain academic standards will result in withdrawal," and the growing stack of unpaid bills.
He needed to fix this. But he wasn't sure where to start.
The next morning came too early. Ryan woke at five to make his first café shift. He brewed coffee until his eyes stung, then dashed across campus for his 9 a.m. lecture. Half the seats were filled with students in crisp shirts and quiet confidence. He slipped into the back, keeping his head down.
He barely lasted twenty minutes before exhaustion hit him, and he almost drifted off. By the end of class, he couldn't remember half of what the lecturer said.
Afterwards, he stopped by the Faculty Office to submit a Course Adjustment Form , an official request to retake a course he'd failed the previous semester. The hallway smelled faintly of polish and paper, and the air conditioner hummed too loudly for comfort. The woman at the reception barely looked up when he handed over the file, just stamped it and said, "Next."
He lingered a moment longer than necessary, staring at the noticeboard beside the counter —lists of Dean's List students, scholarship renewals, departmental club meetings. His name wasn't on any of them.
As he turned to leave, laughter spilled from the nearby Senior Students' Lounge — smooth, confident, the kind of laughter that filled a room without effort. He glanced in by accident.
There was Adrian Val.
He sat on the edge of a table, surrounded by three other guys who were always joined at his hip. Even from a distance, Ryan could tell who he was. The posture gave it away — calm, poised, unbothered. He had that quiet authority people didn't need to announce.
Ryan didn't linger, but the image stayed with him long after he left.
The weeks that followed blurred into one another.
Ryan worked, studied, and barely slept. His body ached in quiet ways, stiff shoulders, burning eyes. There were days he'd sit through lectures and not process a single word, and nights when his mind looped endlessly through numbers: bills, grades, rent, hours till dawn.
Sometimes he thought about quitting one of his jobs, but the idea of what that meant — missed rent, skipped meals — was enough to kill the thought instantly.
And there was Ethan's voice, filling whatever silence remained and always circling back to Adrian Val.
"Did you see the club page? Adrian gave a talk on leadership."
"Bro, Adrian's team crushed everyone at the interfaculty basketball game."
"He posted a video with his friends. Man, that guy's life looks so unreal. Like how can someone be this perfect."
Ryan never replied, but each mention left a faint mark.
He started catching glimpses of Adrian everywhere. Once while crossing the courtyard, another time while making deliveries for a student event. Adrian — in his clean shirts, polished shoes, walking like he had nothing in the world to worry about.
It wasn't envy, not really. It was something colder , a kind of awareness that some people were built for ease, while others like him had to fight for air.
Even on one Friday evening, after his last delivery, Ryan walked into the campus café to return his apron, and froze.
Adrian was there.
He was sitting with two of his friends — Dylan, from Computer Science, and Liam, a medical student whose father owned a private hospital. They looked like guys who'd never struggled for anything. Adrian leaned back in his chair, quietly listening as the others talked.
Ryan kept his head down and went to the counter, pretending to count bills. Still, he could feel Adrian's presence across the room — that effortless composure that made everyone else seem too loud, too restless.
When he left, he found himself irritated. Not because Adrian had done anything wrong — but because he hadn't. He just existed perfectly, and Ryan hated how aware he'd become of it.
Why was he even this aware? Because Ethan talked about him too much? Because of the tutoring suggestion? Or was it something else entirely?
By mid-semester, he was running out of time. He hadn't asked for help. He hadn't improved. And the thought of failing again gnawed at him like a slow poison.
The afternoon sunlight slanted through the glass panels of the faculty building, tinting the hallway gold. Ryan Kene stood outside the lecturer's office, his heart beating faster than it should for something as simple as a meeting. His palms were damp, his shirt clinging slightly to his back. After a lecture on Psychology, a general studies course— one of the courses he can't help but wonder what business he has with it, the class rep mentioned that course advisor had requested to see all scholarship students.
He knocked once.
"Come in," came the deep voice from inside.
The office was cool, air-conditioned, lined with books that looked like they hadn't been opened in years. Behind the desk sat Dr. Mensah — Management Theory lecturer for the upper levels, but also the assigned course advisor for scholarship students in Ryan's level.
Across from him, seated casually on the edge of a chair, was Adrian Val.
Ryan froze for a fraction of a second. Of all people to run into here, why him? Adrian was the kind of person people noticed. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a stillness that carried authority. He was the first and only son of a powerful conglomerate family, nephew to the school's owner, and, somehow, the most disciplined face of his infamous clique.
Ryan stepped in quietly, keeping his eyes low.
"Ah, Mr. Kene," Dr. Mensah said, adjusting his glasses. "Sit down."
He obeyed, setting his worn file on his lap. The lecturer flipped through a sheet of paper, frowning. "Your attendance is worrying, Ryan. Your grades have slipped, drastically. Even last semester you were way below 3.0. What's happening?"
Ryan swallowed. "I've been… working, sir. My shifts sometimes—"
"Shifts?" the lecturer cut in. "You're on scholarship. You should be using that opportunity to study, not exhaust yourself over part-time jobs. This isn't a technical college. You're here to excel."
The words stung, but Ryan didn't flinch. He'd heard worse. What unsettled him wasn't the scolding — it was the faint awareness of Adrian's quiet presence a few feet away. Dressed in over sized shirt and sitting on a black couch that in a way elevated his aura, Ryan could feel the weight of his gaze, steady and unreadable.
Dr. Mensah went on, his voice filling the room. "Even if I don't teach your level directly, I keep tabs on my scholarship students. The school expects discipline. I want to see improvement, Mr. Kene — attendance, assignments, everything."
Ryan nodded faintly. "Yes, sir."
He didn't know why his throat felt tight. If it were anyone else sitting there, he would've brushed it off. But something about Adrian being there made the shame sharper.
The lecturer's tone softened slightly. "You're industrious, Ryan. But being industrious will not give you a pass over here."
Ryan forced a small nod, trying to focus. But his mind drifted — to the unpaid bills, the missed lectures, the sleepless mornings at the café. He could barely keep his eyes open lately, running from work to class to nowhere. And now, this.
He blinked, realizing Dr. Mensah was still speaking.
"...and if you don't take responsibility for your attendance and grade, young man, even a scholarship won't save you from failure," the lecturer concluded, his voice sharp with finality.
Ryan stared blankly for a moment, the words echoing faintly. And then, through the fog of exhaustion, one thought surfaced, sudden, unwanted, and terrifyingly clear.
I need Adrian.
It startled him, the idea itself, but it stayed. Out of everyone, Adrian was the only one who could actually help him pull through this semester. He'd thought about asking others, but he barely had friends. Even approaching the top students in his level felt impossible. Those people already had study groups, routines, and confidence he couldn't fake. And deep down, Ryan's pride feared rejection — especially from someone in his level. So Adrian was the best fit. He was the only senior Ryan knows, they barely knew eachother apart from Ryan who was forced to know Adrian through Ethan, and Ryan had less time with him compared to his coursemate. Yeah, Adrian was the best fit. Ryan thought concludedly
The lecturer kept talking on and on, circling back to his earlier points like a preacher repeating his sermon. Ryan tried to keep up, but the room tilted slightly. His chest tightened. Normally, he could handle long hours, harsh words, even hunger. But now, under Adrian's quiet gaze, he felt like all his stamina had vanished.
When the session finally ended, Ryan exhaled shakily. Relief hit him — at least it was over. At least he hadn't completely lost face in front of Adrian.
He muttered a quick "thank you, sir," gathered his things, and turned to leave.
The corridor outside was bright, silent. He took one step forward , then another and suddenly the world tilted. His vision blurred, his knees gave way, and the last thing he felt was the cool air against his face before everything went black.
In the dark, there was motion. Arms around him. The faint rush of air. The warmth of someone's chest as he was lifted.
His eyelids fluttered weakly. For a second, through the haze, he caught a glimpse of a familiar face, dark hair, a jawline he knew too well.
Then everything disappeared.