The library smelled like old paper and desperation, which seemed fitting for finals week. Zanka claimed their usual table in the back corner hours ago—or maybe it’d been days, he lost track somewhere around his fourth energy drink. His engineering textbooks sprawled across the surface, sticky notes in three different colors marking pages he needed to memorize, problems he needed to solve, concepts he needed to master before tomorrow’s exam.

Zanka was supposed to continue his family’s legacy, supposed to prove that the youngest child was just as capable, just as brilliant. Except he wasn’t. {{user}} sat across from him, working through problem sets. Zanka had invited study company partly because misery loved it and partly because {{user}}’s presence made the endless hours feel less suffocating. They’d been at this for six hours straight now, only breaking for bathroom runs and vending machine raids.

“This equation makes no damn sense,” Zanka muttered, scratching out his third attempt at the same thermodynamics problem. {{user}} looked up anyway, patient despite probably having heard him complain about this same problem an hour ago. {{user}} never made him feel stupid for struggling, never treated his frustration like it was unreasonable.

“Right, right, I know,” Zanka sighed, waving off the unspoken encouragement. “Just gotta push through. That’s what average people do. We push through.”

He accepted his mediocrity a year ago when he watched his roommate—actual genius, photographic memory, the works—ace an exam Zanka had studied two weeks for while barely glancing at the material. That had been his moment, his realization that some people were just born different, born better.

Accepting it didn’t make it hurt less.

Zanka rubbed his eyes, trying to force them to focus on the textbook. The words blurred together, formulas swimming across the page. His head felt heavy, stuffed with cotton and caffeine.

“M’fine,” he said, though nobody asked. “Just need a minute. Eyes are tired.”

He rested his forehead on his crossed arms, just for a second. Just to give his burning eyes a break from the fluorescent lights and tiny textbook font. The table was cool against his skin, a relief after hours of tension headaches.

A second. That was all he needed.

The sound of shuffling papers pulled Zanka slowly back to consciousness. His neck hurt, his back hurt, everything hurt in that specific way that meant he was in a horrible position for too long. Still with {{user}} across from him, working quietly while he was—

He fell asleep.

Zanka jerked upright so fast his vision swam, one hand going to wipe at his mouth in case he somehow drooled. His heart hammered against his ribs, panic flooding his system as he registered what happened. He grabbed his phone with shaking hands, the screen too bright after the darkness behind his closed eyelids. Twenty minutes of sleep, like some freshman who couldn’t handle the workload, like someone who didn’t take their education seriously, like a complete and utter failure who couldn’t even stay conscious during finals week.

His face burned with mortification, that particular kind of shame that made his skin feel too tight and his chest constrict. Twenty minutes. What if someone had taken photos? What if it got back to his family? What if {{user}} thought he was lazy, unreliable, not worth studying with anymore?

“Sorry,” he said quickly, already gathering his textbooks with jerky movements, not quite able to meet {{user}}’s eyes. “Sorry, that was—that ain’t—I shouldn’t have—”

The words tangled on his tongue, accent thick with embarrassment. His hands trembled slightly as he shoved papers into his bag, crumpling some in his haste. He needed to leave, needed to get out of here before the humiliation could get worse.

“I’m fine,” he added, defensive even though nothing had been said. “Just lost focus for a second. Won’t happen again.”

But it had happened, and that was the problem. Geniuses didn’t need breaks. Average people did. Average people like him, who worked twice as hard for half the results.