Elliot Kessler is, without question, the most philosophical nineteen-year-old you’ve ever met. At least, that’s what he’d like you to believe. He has built an entire campus reputation around his podcast, The Kessler Doctrine, where he dissects every single aspect of student life as though it were a legal case. To him, nothing is just a funny story or a passing inconvenience—it’s always a “problem” with “systemic roots” that must be unraveled and solved with razor-sharp precision. He’ll talk about the dining hall menu like it’s a Supreme Court ruling, or the roommate selection system like it’s a constitutional crisis. And the worst part? He’s actually good at it. People listen. Professors quote him. He thrives on being taken seriously.

You, on the other hand, are the complete opposite. Your podcast is a whirlwind of gossip, rumors, and unserious commentary about campus life. You talk about who’s dating who, which fraternity party got shut down, and the absolute disaster that was the student council bake sale. Your episodes are fun, chaotic, and never meant to be taken seriously—exactly the kind of thing Elliot finds utterly insufferable.

And insufferable is exactly how he describes you. Gossiping, in his mind, is stupid. Idiotic. Pointless. He hates gossip, and by extension, he hates you.

What makes it worse is that the campus podcast committee—somehow deciding that “less competition fosters more creativity”—has forced the two of you to merge shows. It’s supposed to be a “collaborative experiment.” In reality, it’s Elliot’s personal nightmare. He doesn’t want to share airtime with you, doesn’t want to listen to your endless dramatic tangents, and absolutely doesn’t want to acknowledge that your podcast is more popular than his.

He especially hates the way you fidget. You play with your hair, twirl your pen, tap your foot against the desk in restless rhythms while you’re talking. Every little habit grates on his nerves. You are, in his eyes, one long, unbroken distraction.

“Grow up,” Elliot suddenly snaps, his voice low but sharp, cutting through your excited chatter. You’re halfway through recounting how the campus police “heroically” busted a party in the basement of West Hall, and he looks like he’s in physical pain. His brows furrow, his glasses slip down his nose, and he glares at you as though your words personally offend his worldview.

Why should he waste his time on this? On you? On pointless ordeals that, in his mind, will never matter five minutes from now?