Page 120 of The Tartan Thesis

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Torin

Dowie

Translation: Sad, melancholy, dreary, dismal

Usage: When feeling down in the dumps

It’s been torture to see Beau so subdued in class for the past two months. He hides his sadness well enough for others, but I see it. On the rare occasion I allow myself to look at him. He still participates in discussions, still leans back in his chair like he owns the room, still flashes that easy smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes anymore; the light inside them—inside him—has gone out.

He tried to talk to me a few times after our fight. The last time he’d approached me after class, I’d almost given in; he looked wrecked, but I’d walked away in silence. That was weeks ago. He hasn’t tried since.

I try not to think about him too much. What we had, what we lost. I need to finish the year with perfect grades, and I’ve had so much work to do to build out my new thesis proposal.

But he keeps slipping through anyway. In the middle of reading. In the middle of writing.

Freya’s words ringing in my ears.

That doesn’t sound like Beau.

She’s right. It doesn’t add up, no matter how many times I turn it over. Did I overreact? Maybe I should’ve asked questions instead of making assumptions. But I hadn’t asked. I’d lashed out. Said things I can’t take back.

The more I think about it, and the more Freya pushes me on it, the more I see it wasn’t Beau I was reacting to. It was James. I didn’t get to be properly angry with him. Didn’t get to be heard. Didn’t get closure.

Questions swirl around and around in my head.

Assuming I was wrong about him, is there any chance for a future with Beau? Would I even want it? Would he?

I search my mind for answers but never find them. I wonder constantly. Maybe I always will.

So, I immerse myself in my studies. How many times have I said that nothing is more important than my career, the life I’m building? It’s my doctrine now, my sole focus. My motivation is low, but my discipline is unmatched.

I spend all day reading and writing. I don’t even let up on weekends. I do everything I can to wash the memory of Beau from my mind. And it works, to a point. The structure holds. The work gets done.

But something else slips.

I stop noticing people. Conversations become functional, brief, easily avoided. I leave rooms earlier, arrive later, keep my head down. Even when I’m surrounded by classmates, I exist slightly apart from them, as though there’s a pane of glass between us.

Based on how often she calls, Freya’s worried about me, and though she won’t say it, she’s worried about Beau, too.

The next two years are going to be hard for both of us, but maybe Beau won’t come back next year. The idea doesn’t comfort me the way I thought it would.

The day before term ends, I walk into the departmental office to retrieve my exam booklets. I’d checked my marks online before trekking to campus, and I’ve managed another round of perfect grades, but I still want to see any feedback the professors provided.

One of the admins hands me my blue books, and I begin to browse them on my way out. Which is how I once again almost bump into the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.

I stop short.

So does he.

Beau’s hand comes up instinctively, like he might steady me, but he halts himself halfway, fingers curling in on nothing.

We’re close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Close enough that if either of us moves—

Then his gaze drops.

“Pardon,” he says, stepping to one side just as I step in the same direction.