For Solomon, midterm week is just like any other. While this dreaded week is infamous for putting the students of Noah's Arc through the academic wringer, the caracal has found that he could never relate to his gloomy, sleep-deprived classmates when it comes to the stress of exams.

Well, that's not necessarily true. When it comes to the actual emotional turmoil, Solomon's state is technically quite similar to his fellow test takers. He too is a victim of endless studying sessions, sleepless tossing and turnings in bed wondering how tomorrow's evaluation will fare, and the physical toll of being fueled only by caffeinated drinks. Though his face when being handed the test sheet remains as calm and collected as it always is, it really only serves to hide the excruciating terror that boils within him. Many students have a similar anxiety when it comes to exams.

But as soon as Friday rolls around, and the horrible gauntlet of academia has been thrown down and laid to rest (for better or worse), the anxiety of the average student is washed away. Even if they predict their future grade to be abysmal, the mere fact that they can finally take a breath and move on is enough comfort for most. This is where Solomon differs.

Midterms never end for him, not really. When you are a caracal with a grand reputation, every moment of your existence is a test of its own. Especially when one chooses to stay off meat. Schoolwork is the modern day hunt, the outlet for one's fight or flight reaction in lieu of actual physical danger. To the body, the pressure of evaluation is indistinguishable from dangling off a cliff. The average animal can barely withstand a week of such stress, but for Solomon, this pressure looms within him every moment of every day like a horrible cancer.

For this reason, midterm week is just like any other.

Solomon had long grown accustomed to this. Perhaps he had even learned to thrive in this sickening state of mind. It is his only propulsion in life, his only drive that motivates him, even if he didn't know where this motivation would take him. But by the end of midterms, he often feels a gnawing in his chest, a distinct convulsion of his soul when silently looking on at the relief of others. Could it be jealousy? Yearning? Melancholy? Solomon doesn't care enough about psychology to find out.

His thoughts turn to her, as they often do. What would she be feeling now? She who is different from the rest, cut from the same cloth as himself. Surely her emotions are more nuanced than her radiant smile lets on. Maybe her pain is even sharper; after all, she has a higher position in student council to maintain, and females usually feel more pressure regarding their intelligence. Yet, she acts like nothing fazes her. It's mesmerizing.

Solomon wishes he could exude half as much confidence as her. Compared to her performance, his seems like only a cheap imitation. Anyone can act aloof and cool under pressure. But only a feline of extraordinary quality can get through life — no, dominate life — wearing that glimmer in her eyes.

A schoolboy thought flutters briefly through his mind. A vision of a world severed from time and space. No more hunger or midterms. Just her and him together. Would she still smile if there was no obligation to do so? A desperate loneliness claws out of his chest, embracing him.

The thought vanishes, and with it, the feral loneliness.

Truly a schoolboy thought. He castigates himself for it. But something's different. He's not quite sure what it is, but suddenly, he's standing outside of a neon-lit establishment. A karaoke bar.

It seems he has taken himself here without full awareness of doing so. Uncharacteristically thoughtless of him to do so. The building bustles with activity; it is after all a Friday night fresh out of midterms. Dozens of students have been waiting all week to come celebrate here and sing their worries away with friends.

Solomon peers up at the familiar sign. His visit is not for any type of celebration. It could be more akin to a drive or an urge, no more ceremonious than drinking water or urinating.

He rents out a room for himself, careful to avoid detection from fellow Noah's Arc students. He closes the soundproof door. It really does feel like locking himself in an asylum room, completely isolated from the rest of the world. He had karaoked with the choir before, but that too was an experience castrated by social pretense. Now, alone with the eerie ringing of the absence of sound, he simmered in this strange sensation of authenticity. Why is it that whenever he feels the most like himself, it's like he's not even a person? Just a vague amorphous concept of sentience, residing within and around the caracal.

He scrolls through the extensive lists of songs, and loads up a list of familiar names without much thought. Pressing the final play button, he picks up the nearby microphone and straightens up as an introductory guitar begins to play.

Sound escapes his throat; a voice that is altogether alien to him. It's a nice voice, deep and refined, perfectly in key with the melody that reverberates from the padded walls. It belts out the lyrics displayed on the wide screen before him with surprising emotion, crescendoing and quavering as the music becomes more intense, but in an instant reverting to a quiet tone when needed.

Solomon tries paying attention to the lyrics. It sounds like a love song, or maybe not. Its wording is too vague, as is the case with most alt rock songs of the same ilk. Normally he wouldn't pay much mind to such hazy lyrics, but for some reason, it feels like he can understand what the musician is trying to convey today. Music has the power of granting scarily real emotions to meaningless words. The drive to sing and appreciate music is one that even he could not even begin to dissect.

Hours faze by, until Solomon's playlist finally runs dry. His throat now sore, he departs somewhat anticlimactically. Staring out of the bus window into the brightly-lit night, that schoolboy thought returns to him again, just as brief as last time. He wasn't sure whether to be annoyed at its recurrence or disappointed at its brevity. An airplane slowly creeps across the sky. The sight is strangely comforting to him, like a promise of escape. Escape from what, he wonders. He continues to gaze at the faraway object as it makes its solemn march.

Suddenly, he becomes aware of a certain emotional crossroads that he has somehow stumbled across. At this moment, he could either choose to call Hafsa, ask to meet her, kiss her with his dry lips and hold her with his heavy arms, never let her go, and spill his guts to her so profoundly it could fill up fifty songs' worth of lyrics, or return to his dorm and go to sleep so that the curse of midterms would be forever buried.

Solomon had lovely, miserable, schoolboy dreams that night.

AN: Thanks for reading! This is an extraordinarily short chapter, sorry. I had planned to write a much longer chapter about midterms but when doing so, I found it obnoxious beyond repair. I'm not a fan of tests, so writing about the actual event was unbearable. There is a reason so many high school stories hardly touch on the actual education aspect of high school. Actually describing it is quite boring. So many things in life are impactful because of how they make you feel, not because of what they actually are. Tests are an example of this. Music is too. So I changed my mind and wrote a Solomon-centric chapter. I'd say quality over quantity but I can't even boast that...

The title references a song from Legião Urbana I quite enjoy. Any fans of Brazilian 80s alt rock? I also recommend Lanterna dos Afogados, though that's from Paralamas.

Take it easy and stay safe.