But it seems I have much less control over my mind state than I once thought.
I shift in my chair and cross my legs. The high windows lining the stone wall let silver moonlight through, mixing with the golden glow from the candle burning on the desk.
Usually, the library closes at sundown, but it’s open later during finals week. Though right now, it’s quiet, with only a handful of students sitting at the other desks or reading in armchairs before the big crackling fire.
I stare down at the parchment before me. My quill is clutched in one hand, and I use my other to prop my head up as I reread my fellowship application essay for the hundredth time.
I’ve rewritten this thing so many times now that the words feel like a foreign language as my eyes scan over them.
As I finish my read, a sick feeling churns inside me.
Something still isn’t right with my essay. It feels... dead. Like words that make sense in theory and organization but lack a beating heart, a soul.
I nibble on my lip.
And without meaning to, I recall what Severin told me that day in his office, when I was curled up in the chair across from his desk, working on this same ridiculous essay.
Passion isn’t always something to be feared.
Professor Azula warned me not to be too impassioned in my writing. Severin understood her stance but disagreed with her. Now I feel stuck in the middle—not just between two professors, but between academia and my heart. Between what Ithinkthe collective board wants to hear and what I actually want to say.
Between fear and passion.
My fingers tighten around my quill.
Why do all of my thoughts circle back around to Severin? Why can’t I get him and his words and his touch out of my head? It’s maddening.
A burst of irritation goes through me, accompanied by a tingle of static just beneath my skin.
And without allowing myself to second-guess it, I pull out a fresh parchment, dip my quill into my inkwell, and start to write.
I don’t think of Azula or her criticisms or what the collective may or may not think. The words come slowly at first, appearing on the page in swirls of dark ink. Then they come faster, pouring out of me. I have to dip my quill again before returning to the page.
The thread in my chest hums faintly.
And I allow myself to take Severin’s advice.
Passion replaces my restraint. Emotion replaces the sterile language of cautious academia.
As I write, my magic stirs restlessly beneath my skin, like a storm brewing in a summer sky, far enough away to not be visible and yet still detectable in the air, in the shift of the breeze.
I keep writing.
Outside, wind whispers against the library windows. Paper rustles as a student at a nearby table turns a page in their book. And in the massive hearth, the fire crackles and pops.
My quill scratches against parchment. I dip it into my inkwell again. Then I keep writing.
When I finally finish the essay and put my quill beside me, I look up to find the library mostly empty. The student at the table beside mine is gone. I’m not sure how much time has passed, but my neck aches from leaning over the table, and my fingers are cramped from clutching my quill.
But the essay—revision one million—is done.
I stare down at it, letting my eyes track across the pages of parchment. And the essay isn’t perfect. It’s not what Professor Azula wants from me.
But it’sreal. It’sme.
The conversation with Severin floats back into my mind.
Do you really think I can do it? Get the fellowship?
