Chapter 1
"I hate group projects."
It's not because I don't do my work — I always do. It's because group projects are built on trust between people who have done absolutely nothing to earn it. You're expected to believe that someone you met six days ago and exchanged exactly three polite smiles with is going to care about your GPA as much as you do.
They never do.
My laptop screen has been glaring at me for the past twenty minutes, the unfinished slide on regression analysis sitting there like a threat. Our presentation is in four days, and half of our data still needs to be interpreted properly before we can even think about turning it into something that looks like we know what we're talking about.
I rub my eyes and reach for my phone.
Layla and I agreed earlier today that we should meet up before Friday to go through everything together. She's new to the class this semester — soft-spoken, but the kind of quiet that feels deliberate rather than unsure. During our first meeting, she'd taken one look at the dataset and pointed out an error no one else had noticed.
I liked her immediately.
I open our chat and start typing.
"Hey, are you free to meet tomorrow? We really need to go over the data analysis section together before Friday."
I reread it twice.
Not too pushy. Not too casual.
I press send and toss my phone onto the desk, leaning back in my chair with a sigh that feels heavier than it should. The city outside my apartment window is loud tonight — traffic moving in impatient waves, distant laughter from somewhere down the street, the occasional rush of wind against the glass.
My phone buzzes.
That was quick.
I reach for it, expecting some variation of "yes" or "what time?"
Instead, I get:
"Tomorrow works. What time were you thinking?"
Relief settles somewhere in my chest.
"Maybe around 10? Library?"
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Disappear.
Then appear again.
"Sure. I'll be there."
I smile faintly, placing my phone back down beside my notebook. One thing handled, at least. We can sort through the analysis together tomorrow and hopefully figure out why the model refuses to behave like it should.
For the first time since this project was assigned, my shoulders loosen slightly.
The seminar room smells like dry-erase markers and burnt coffee when I walk in the next morning.
Layla is already there, sitting near the window with her tablet propped up in front of her. Her curls are pulled back today, a pencil tucked behind her ear as she scrolls through something with intense focus.
She looks up when I approach.
"Morning."
"Morning," I reply, setting my bag down and sliding into the seat across from her. "Thanks for meeting."
She frowns slightly.
"For what?"
I blink.
"For... today?"
Layla's brows pull together in confusion.
"We never decided on today," she says slowly. "I was actually going to text you this morning to see when you were free."
Something in my chest tightens.
"I messaged you last night," I say. "About meeting up at ten?"
Her confusion doesn't fade.
"I didn't get anything from you."
My stomach drops.
"Wait — seriously?"
Layla reaches for her phone, unlocking it and scrolling quickly before turning the screen toward me.
Our chat is empty.
No new messages from me.
Nothing about meeting today.
A strange, unsettled feeling settles low in my stomach.
"But I—" I stop, pulling my own phone from my pocket and opening the conversation.
The messages are there.
Sent.
Delivered.
"That's weird," I murmur.
Layla glances down at the number at the top of the screen.
"That's not my number," she says.
My breath catches.
"What?"
"I changed it yesterday afternoon," she continues. "I emailed it to you after class."
I stare at the contact information on my phone, my pulse starting to pick up.
Because the number I texted last night - the one that replied —isn't Layla's.
And whoever it belongs to...is expecting to meet me at the library at ten.
