BRYCE
I sat in the library with Constitutional Law notes spread across the table in front of me.
Week and a half since I'd accepted the scholarship. Week and a half since everything changed.
I'd quit both jobs. The bookstore first, then the coffee shop three days later. My managers had been understanding—one less stressed student worker to worry about. Part of me had felt guilty walking away, but the relief was stronger than the guilt.
For the first time since starting college, I had time. Actual time to study properly. To sleep more than four hours a night. To eat meals that weren't grabbed between shifts or skipped entirely because I was too exhausted to care.
My grades were already improving. Got an A on my Medieval Lit paper—the one about courtly love traditions that I'd actually had time to research properly. Ninety-two on my Biology exam. My GPA was climbing back toward where it should be.
