Page 12 of Spearcrest Queen

The first month atHarvard Law feels like drowning, invisibly, in slow motion.

Each day drags me deeper under, the weight of assignments crushing against my airless chest. I kick and struggle, but the surface only ever seems to drift further away.

The summer course flies by in a blurry whirl. The days are long and gruelling, packed with classes and prep sessions. There’s so much to catch up on that by the time the summer course ends and the proper academic year begins, I feel more behind than when I started.

Summer crashes headlong into fall. The rest of the students arrive in full force, refreshed, raring to go, bulldozing us in their wake. And the pressure, instead of easing now it’s no longer just fifteen of us, skyrockets.

Harvard’s red brick buildings gleam with glossy ivy, their tall chimneys catching the gold-red light of sunset. The air smells of woodsmoke and grass, the leaves already turning gold and fluttering to the pavements below. It’s a beautiful place, almost as beautiful as Spearcrest.

But just like Spearcrest, its beauty is deceptive, designed to shield the ugliness within. A world of pressure, privilege, and depression behind crimson banners boasting the bold, ironic motto ofVeritas.

The end of Augustwas short and intimidating; September is long and relentless.

Outside, the world turns gold. The maples and oaks begin to shed, fallen leaves collecting like wind-blown confetti in corners. The crisp air carries the scent of sugar and cider from a cart near the Yard, where undergrads queue for apple doughnuts and cups of steaming overly sweet coffees.

By the end of September, most of my free time is spent at the library, buried in its maze of high ceilings, endless shelves, and desks scattered with green-shaded lamps. My eyes keep drifting to the tall windows, tracing the defeated arcs of falling leaves with strange envy.

Despite how hard I worked to get here, I think about giving up all the time. The fantasy plays on a loop in my head: booking flights, packing up, going home. Anything just to feel less lonely. Anything to feel like I’m loved or wanted or even enough.

And maybe that’s why, in the first week of October, when Evan texts me to tell me he wants to come see me this weekend, I finally give in. For all his flaws, Evan’s the only constant in my life right now. His persistence—though frustrating at times—is comforting, a reminder that I matter. Even if I can’t fully trust that he’ll always love me, I can trust that he’ll show up when I need him.

Evan: I missyou. Let’s meet up this weekend?

I hesitate before replying, staring at his text. Part of me knows I shouldn’t. Reaching out to him is selfish, and it’s not going to help either of us move on, but the painful, ugly truth is that Iwantto see him, need it more badly than I ever thought possible.

I delete my reply. Type it again. Delete it again. My fingers hover over my phone before I finally give in.

Sophie: Sorry I’ve been so busy. Yes, I’d like that. I finish classes at 6 pm on Friday.

Evan: I’ll be there.

I drop my phone and close my eyes, breathing out a sigh that’s part shame, part relief.

Friday comes, dark andheavy with clouds. The days are getting shorter, and the mornings are beginning to feel like evenings. At night, the cold seeps in through the glass of my bedroom window. In the mornings, I’m cold from the moment I step out of bed, shivering on the walk to Blackstone Hall, hands shoved in my pockets, breath misting in the orange light of streetlamps.

But the cold doesn’t affect me today. For the first time since I arrived here, I’m in a good mood, hope warming me up from the inside. I know I’ve made a selfish choice, and I know this is probably a mistake, but none of it matters, because this might be the closest thing to happiness I’ve felt since Iarrived here.

And maybe that shines through. Maybe I let a dreamy smile stray onto my face, or maybe there’s a lightness in my step today.

All I know is that I’m prey who’s let a weakness slip, and the predators can’t help but be drawn in.

Maximilian and Anthony follow me into the lecture hall for our last seminar of the day, and despite my attempt to evade them at the end of a row, I find myself squeezed between them, effectively trapped.

Anthony’s phone, for once, is nowhere to be seen. His dark hair is slicked back, and his cashmere jumper smells of musky perfume and the vague, cloying candy-sweet smell of vape smoke. Maximilian’s pale face is slightly flushed from the cold, and his brown-grey eyes, so disturbingly devoid of warmth, gleam with perverse excitement.

“Our first long weekend of the year,” Anthony says against my ear, quietly enough that the professor currently lecturing us on legal theory doesn’t hear him. “Any exciting plans, Sonya?”

“Not really.”

“Ray-Ray and I have a house in Martha’s Vineyard for the weekend.” Max is leaning into my arm, whispering into my other ear. “What do you say?”

I don’t say anything.

Everyone in our little DART class knows about the house in Martha’s Vineyard, because everyone’s been bending over backwards to secure an invitation. I know better than to be caught begging: rich kids only ever like their sycophants in disguise.

“Come on, Sonya,” Anthony says, nose brushing against my cheek. I know he wants to see me bristle; I keep my focus on my notes. “All work and no play, remember?”

“All work and no play got me into Harvard.”

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