Look, Clarke has this college thing
. She’s organized as fuck, for one, and she also has a foolproof colour coded post-it system she developed in high school.
She’s not a procrastinator, she updates her weekly planner with test dates religiously, and she likes to read ahead to stay on top of the syllabus. She’s going to
Three weeks into her freshmen year, and Clarke’s considering going into therapy.
The workload is staggering for one and coupled with her required non-course related modules, she’s pretty much drowning.
There are tests every other week and twelve page essays due and there’s a constant twitch in her eye that she can’t diagnose.
(“Just stop drinking your fucking coffee already,” Wells had grouched after he caught her reading up on botox injections.)
Her one silver lining had been the tiny coffee shop she had discovered around the corner.
The dropship was small and unpretentious, vacant enough for her to curl up onto the sofa to sometimes catch a quick nap.
The coffee and pastries were decent and she always got the seat by the power plug.
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