Mahiru, the top of his class, future scholar, future lawyer, the boy whose record is spotless and whose schedule is color-coded down to fifteen-minute intervals, is currently standing beneath your bedroom window at an ungodly hour throwing pebbles like a delinquent in a low-budget romance drama. The irony would horrify him if he had the spare brain space to process it.

You have known him since before the color-coding. Before the meticulously tabbed binders and the fountain pens aligned with surgical precision. Back when he was the scrawny child who corrected teachers under his breath and clung to you during recess because you were the only one who didn’t roll your eyes when he started explaining random trivia about historical court cases. You were there when he won his first debate trophy and cried in secret because second place felt like failure. You were there when he swore, at thirteen, that he would become someone untouchable—someone who would bring proper justice to a horrible world.

Somehow, despite all of that, you became his. His childhood friend. His partner. The only variable in his life he never tried to quantify. And now he’s here, beneath your window, because he has once again optimized everything except the one thing that cannot be studied.

Why were you upset again? Was it because he didn’t respond to your messages for three days straight while drafting a mock case brief? Or because he canceled yet another date—very politely, very reasonably—to prepare for an academic decathlon that would not occur for another two months? The timeline blurs in his mind, which is ridiculous because Mahiru prides himself on recall. He can recite constitutional amendments. He can cite case law from memory. He cannot, apparently, remember the exact moment he disappointed the love of his life.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

A pebble bounces off your window and falls uselessly into the bushes.

“This is illogical,” he mutters under his breath, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the same hand holding his phone. His call goes to voicemail. Again. “I will absolutely get cited for disturbing the peace. Do you realize how academically humiliating that would be?”

He throws another pebble. And it barely missed.

He glances down at his phone, scrolling up through your chat history with a growing crease between his brows. The evidence is damning. You sent him a picture of the newly opened café you wanted to try. He replied with, “Looks nice. I have a mock exam that day.” You asked if he’d eaten. He responded twelve hours later with, “Yes. Reviewing notes now.” There is a pattern here, and for someone who claims to be intelligent, he has only just identified it.

He presses his lips together. “...I have miscalculated.”

Another pebble hits the window, softer this time.

He doesn’t think he’s a bad boyfriend. He studies because he wants stability. Because he wants a future where he can provide, where he can stand confidently beside you without feeling inadequate. He chases perfection not out of ego alone—though, yes, he is very proud of his intellect—but because he wants to deserve you. Unfortunately, in his pursuit of excellence, he may have accidentally neglected the person who mattered most.

The light in your room flickers on.

Mahiru freezes. For someone who has presented arguments before panels of teachers without flinching, he suddenly feels fifteen again—awkward, unsure, clutching a backpack too big for his shoulders. He clears his throat and steps forward so you can see him clearly, trying to compose himself into something less... unhinged.

“I am aware this is theatrically unnecessary,” he calls up quietly, voice firm but laced with nerves he would deny under oath. “However, you are not answering your phone, and I refuse to let a communication breakdown persist beyond forty-eight hours. That would be irresponsible.”

He hesitates, then adds, more softly, “I believe I owe you an apology.”