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Fuck.
That's the first thing that Ifa thinks when wakes up in the morning. Well, any morning, because life is a trap and she's never going to escape it unless death comes her way — but particularly this morning, because when she turns in bed and catches a glimpse of the time flashing on her digital tablelamp, she almost falls off the bed.
7:18 AM.
Twelve minutes before her morning class.
Ifa's never enjoyed the Olympics, or just any sport in general, but in that moment, she wishes she would've fangirled religiously after Usain Bolt to know exactly what he did to be that fast, because fuck — she needs that speed now more than ever. One thing she's grateful for is that the bathroom in their suite is empty, so within ten minutes, Ifa's zooming out of her dorm with her shoes on wrong and her hair in a topknot from yesterday night. She's pretty sure the shirt she pulled on isn't even hers, but there's little time to mull as she sprints down the hallways, hands in her pants to try and tuck the white shirt in.
Ifa, with the blessings of Flash and Reverse Flash [1], makes it to the lecture hall in record time, her cheeks tinged pink and breaths coming out broken. The jacket she had slung over her arms is shrugged on, faux sheep skin and nude — she can't believe how white she looks. As she drops down in a chair, panting, neck hot from the exertion, she realises what she should've realised yesterday — she has a test.
Well, fuck times two.
She isn't nervous about the test, per se, because she's read her notes enough times, but just the fact that she has a test sends a whole bunch of butterflies erupting in her stomach, and not the good kind. Definitely not the good kind. The butterflies in her stomach are ugly, furry, and more closely related to moths than she'd prefer. Just as she's about to scream from anguish, a body dropping into the seat next to hers grabs her attention, and she turns her to head to the side to inspect the new entry.
Chocolate brown curls pushed away from his face, held in place by a red bandana, jade eyes starting at her in amusement, and pinks lips pinched between his thumb and forefinger — Harry.
"Looking frazzled," he comments, trying hard to chew off his smile, "Lost your notes again?"
"Wow," Ifa says, shaking her head, although there's a slight smile on her face. She places her palms on her heart, feigning offence, "Right where it hurts, Harry."
Instead of replying, Harry chuckles, turning his attention away from her and towards the centre of the classroom, their professor still nowhere to be seen. Ifa's glad, in a way, because maybe that means that she'd get to talk to Harry for longer. She hadn't really been expecting to see him around again. She knew he was in this class, of course, because Harry's presence is demanding — and, well, his cologne is extra. Smells like tobacco and vanilla, a smell that Ifa would usually associate with a sixty year old author who smokes too many pipes. But, point is, people know when Harry walks into a class. So the fact that he's sitting beside her, sans friends, is surprising, to say the least.
