Page 31 of Written in Scent

We walk together for a little while until they reach the path that leads toward the dorms. I hand her backpack back with a warm smile.

“See you around, Melody,” I say softly.

She gives me a small nod and a polite “Thank you” before they head off. I stand there watching them go, her peachy hair catching the sunlight as they walk away.

That didn’t go quite as smoothly as I hoped. But instead of feeling discouraged, something stubborn and warm inhabits my chest.

She’s different from most omegas I’ve met. Reserved. More serious. My usual playful lines seem to make her pull back instead of lean in. It’s throwing me off, but in an interesting way.

It makes me want to figure her out even more.

I step out of Dr. Okonkwo’s office with my heart still carrying a hushed glow. The one page paper I spent so many wistful evenings writing now sits on her desk, officially submitted. She read the final paragraph right in front of me, and when she looked up, her eyes held clear approval.

“This is excellent work, Elodie,” she said. “You clearly have real passion for this. I will let you know when I am finished reviewing the rest of the applications.”

For the first time in days, hope flickers through me. The field trip might actually be possible. All those late nights and careful revisions were worth it.

But the feeling doesn’t last long.

As I check my planner while walking down the corridor, reality settles back in. The hours I poured into that application have left me dangerously behind on everything else. The Research Methods paper is due in less than a week. My Taxonomy notes are disorganized. Several readings I should have finished last week are still untouched.

I pause near the main staircase, torn. What I really want is to turn left and disappear into the archives. The thought of sitting at my quiet desk, surrounded by the comforting scent of cedar drawers and carefully preserved specimens, sounds like the perfect way to recenter myself.

Instead I force my feet to turn right toward the library. Responsibility must come first this time, and I can’t let one success throw the rest of my coursework into chaos.

The decision feels weighted, but necessary.

The library welcomes me the moment I pass through the heavy doors. I have loved this building since the first day I stepped foot inside. The way the sound softens as soon as you cross the threshold, the faint scent of old paper and polished wood and bitter coffee from the adjoining café, the promise that time slows down here. It feels like a sanctuary.

I climb the stairs to the biology section, which sits in the newly built annex. The change in atmosphere is immediate. Harsh white walls, sharp modern lighting, and sleek metal shelves replace the character of the original building. Everything is efficient and clean. Functional. Exactly what a science student should appreciate.

But I miss the older wing. That part of the library, where they keep the arts and literature collections, has dark wooden shelves worn smooth by generations of hands, tall leaded windows, and a deep, lived-in feeling that makes me want to linger. This annex feels too new, too sterile. It lacks the soul I crave when I study.

Still, this is where the biology texts live, so this is where I must be.

I find an open table near the back, tucked beside a tall window that offers a clear view of the green below. I set down my bag and begin spreading out my things — notebook, laptop, planner, and the stack of notes I have been neglecting. Once everything is arranged exactly how I like it, I open my laptop and pull up the Research Methods assignment that has been waiting far too long.

I take a deep breath and begin to work, determined to catch up.

I make good progress for nearly forty minutes. The words come gradually as I outline my approach to data validity and statistical analysis. For a moment I feel the satisfying click of productivity returning after days of being pulled in too many directions.

Then I pause to cross-reference the assignment rubric with my reading list.

My stomach sinks.

There, listed clearly under the required texts for this module, is a title I have never opened. A foundational book on research methodology that the professor specifically mentioned in the second week of class. I stare at the entry, willing it to disappear from the page.

It doesn’t.

Frustration rises in a gradual burn. I’m usually so careful, so meticulous. I color code my planner, triple check deadlines, and pride myself on never falling behind. Yet between the field trip application and the extra hours I have been spending in the archives with Jules’s specimens, this one critical reading somehow fell through the cracks.

I close my eyes for a second and let out a measured breath. I can’t finish this paper properly without the book. The citations and examples the professor specifically asked for are drawn directly from its chapters.

Frustration simmers low in my chest as I push back from the table. There’s nothing to do now except go find it.

I head into the tall stacks, already scanning the call numbers in my mind.

The stacks in the biology annex are tall and narrow, the aisles barely wide enough for two people to pass. The air here carries a stronger scent of paper and binding glue than the main reading area. I move nimbly between the rows, eyes scanning the call numbers until I find the correct section.