Day 2: Rachel (An Impression of Life)

You don’t realize how much of your daily rhythm depends on Rebekah until she’s gone. The morning hits different without her sarcastic texts, her detailed prep plans, or that silent pressure she radiates like a tactical sunlamp. No new spreadsheets. No “Protagonist v. Rachel: Art School Mindgames” charts. Just silence.

You check your messages out of habit. There’s one in the College Spread game chat. Not from a player—but from Claire Kowalski.

ClaireK: New song's ready. New challenge’s extra distracting. Rhett's a bastard. And… I might be doomed. Or in love. Same thing in this case?

You shake your head, not sure if it’s a joke, a cry for help, or Claire just being Claire. Her presence in the chat isn’t strange—after this week’s dramatic... climax, Rhett unofficially dubbed her the “House Pianist.” But her posts are like her music: always right on the edge of something unhinged.

You sip bitter coffee, scrolling idly through Rachel’s basic game card. Four of Hearts. Kiss challenge. A low-point week, and not just numerically.

Then your screen pings.

Freya Andersen: Interview still on for noon? Meet me on the third floor of the old observatory. Back door. Knock three times.

You sigh. You’d nearly forgotten. Last week’s session with Freya—filming you and Rebekah together in Rebekah’s house—had been strange but illuminating. She hadn’t pushed too hard, just asked questions like a curious ghost. This time, you’re solo. You wonder if that makes it easier—or harder.

You check the clock. Enough time to mentally prep. Not enough time to come up with anything clever.

The old observatory is one of the few places no one goes anymore. Third floor of the building that was supposed to be turned into a media lab, then the budget got slashed into oblivion. The walls are dusty. The windows are stained by age. But it’s quiet. Secluded. Safe.

Freya’s already there, coiling a long mic cable. Her setup’s the same as before: handheld camera, directional mic, softbox lights dimmed to neutral. She looks like she hasn’t slept—hair twisted in a loose bun, oversized hoodie with a faded existentialist quote, and coffee shaking slightly in one hand.

She gives you a nod, no smile.

“Lighting okay?” she asks.

“Fine.” You glance at the chair. “Same angle?”

“Yeah.” She adjusts the focus. “Sit back a bit this time. Your face dominated last week.”

“Can’t help being handsome,” you mutter.

That gets half a smirk. “Try harder.”

You sit. The camera clicks on. The red light glows.

She doesn’t waste time. “Do you feel like the same person who started this?”

You blink. It’s an obvious question, one you expect to hear repeatedly, and week by week you feel less like your old self. You’re not sure if that’s good or bad.

“No,” you say simply. “I don’t.”

Freya tilts her head but doesn’t interrupt.

“I’ve been… surprised by myself. Things I thought were clear aren’t. Some of it’s sexual. Some of it’s deeper.” You tap your fingers on your knee. “Some of it is about people. About intimacy. Control. Need. Consent. What I want. What I hate wanting.”

She scribbles a quick note.

“And what do you feel this week?”

You think.

“Tired,” you admit. “But not the bad kind. More like I’m finally… breathing.”

A pause. Then:

“Do the girls know?”

You shrug, thinking of Rachel. Of Chloe, who probably still doesn’t see you as more than a footnote in her autobiography. And of Kailani, who was almost in the game herself.

“Some do,” you say. “Rumors are getting around. Not everyone knows it’s a game, or how deep it goes. But a growing number know something’s going on. I think that’s why you were allowed to make the documentary – if this thing’s coming out anyhow, they want to stay ahead of it.”

Freya nods slowly. No writing this time.

“Have you ever thought about just telling someone everything? Being fully honest. About the rules. The cards. The goals.”

“Sure,” you say. “All the time. We have to get permission to film them for the game, so how much extra would it really be to be completely open?”

“So why haven’t you?”

You look at her. I dunno… I guess because it still feels like there’s some privacy in it if it’s just me and them and the camera. Sure, after the game’s been going so long people are starting to realize there’s something going on but we’re still meant to make some effort to keep things private. That’s why only people in the game, staff, players, old players are able to see the videos. If I start telling everything, it feels like it will violate a trust.”

Freya finally writes that one down.

Then she clicks off the camera.

“Thank you,” she says, as always. Polite. Slightly formal. Like a clerk at an antique store. She doesn’t ask to stay or talk longer. Just begins packing her gear. You leave her in silence, your footsteps echoing on dusty tiles, and step out into the early afternoon sun.

You’re still thinking about her last question when you see someone sketching quietly at a quad bench. Rachel Lin is there; knees drawn up, sketchpad balanced just so, tongue peeking out in thought. And for once, you don’t have a plan yet. You just walk toward her, step by step, no script in your head.

You consider turning around. This week isn’t about points. Not really. It’s a breather week, a slow arc. But something about her—the stillness, the focus—makes you want to know more. Or maybe it just makes you want to sit down.

You ease onto the far end of the bench, giving her plenty of space. Shel doesn’t look up. You glance sideways. She’s working fast—fluid pencil strokes, pauses to squint at something in the distance, then more marks. She tilts her head, erases something furiously, redraws.

“You always draw out here?” you ask.

Her pencil stills just for a heartbeat.

“Only when the light’s right.” She doesn’t look at you. “And when the noise in my head’s too loud to stay inside.”

You nod. “That’s fair.”

There’s a pause.

Then she does glance your way—briefly, curiously, without recognition. Just a flicker of polite awareness. “You’re not blocking anything,” she adds. “So you can stay.”

“Thanks,” you say, like you’ve been granted a visitor’s pass to a quieter universe.

Silence stretches onward. She goes back to drawing. You watch her work, but not her hands. Her face. The way her eyes move. The way she bites her lip when she’s unsure. The soft tension in her posture. It’s careful. Composed. But not fake.

She catches you watching. “What?”

You shrug. “Just curious what you see when you look at people.”

Rachel snorts, soft and breathy. “Usually… angles. Planes. Shadows. Where muscle pulls. Where it hides.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s… clinical.”

“I’m an artist,” she says. “Not a romantic.”

You smile. “I don’t think those are opposites.”

That earns you a glance. A longer one this time. Like she’s sketching you in her head now.

“Are you in one of the art classes?” she asks.

“No. I just… wanted to talk.”

That draws her back slightly. Not afraid. Just uncertain.

“About what?”

You pause. “Nothing specific.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Not yet.”

She eyes you skeptically. Then sighs, flips the sketchpad shut, and leans back on the bench. There’s a little charcoal smudge on her cheek. She hasn’t noticed. “So,” she says. “Is this your way of asking to be drawn?”

You laugh. “Not unless you want to. I don’t sit still very well.”

“Good,” she says. “Me neither.”

There’s a moment between you. Not quite flirtation. Not quite tension. Just... potential. A breeze rustles through the trees. Rachel glances up at it like it’s something worth sketching. And somehow, you’re still sitting there. No plan. No challenge declared. Just a bench. A girl. And a little quiet.

Your room feels quieter than usual tonight.

It’s not silent—college never is. There’s music bleeding through the wall from someone’s Bluetooth speaker. Laughter in the hallway. The whir of your laptop fan like a tiny struggling engine. But compared to the game’s usual rhythm, the pace this week feels... gentle.

You sprawl back across your bed, phone glowing dim beside you, and let the evening settle over you like a sheet you forgot to fold.

There’s no buzz from Rebekah tonight. No five-paragraph strategy thread, no sharp commentary, no teasing meme or words of encouragement.

She’s out there somewhere—locked in a practice lobby with her team, clawing her way back into the center lane of whatever pixelated arena she ruled before all this started. And even though she left with a smirk, you could tell that game mattered to her. It really mattered.

You should probably message her. But something about reaching out mid-focus week feels like breaking a ritual. Instead, your thumb hovers over another name. Rachel Lin.

You didn’t ask for her number. You didn’t make a move. And still, she lingers—half-drawn in your thoughts like one of her sketches. There’s a clarity to her that’s hard to explain. Something solid in how she notices the world without needing to filter it through ego or angle.

You think about how she watched your hands. How she read the tension in your fingers like they were telling secrets even you hadn’t heard yet. No one’s ever said your hands had opinions before.

You check the group chat instead. It’s all the same banter between players. You’ve never really felt a full part of it. Claire—now a newly inducted member of the show’s support staff—has posted.

CLAIRE: “I thought it was just you players who had challenges? Rhett just gave me a new instrument to play on the show this time - a keyboard. And this thing has got everything. Somehow I’ll learn to navigate its bells and whistles by Monday’s show.

You chuckle. Sounds like things are actually working out for Claire. The week has a strange softness to it. Like everyone’s holding their breath before something shifts.

You drop your phone to your chest and stare up at the ceiling.

You’ve had a lot of different weeks since this game started—some absurd, some intense, some that cracked parts of you open like they were overdue for air. But this one… this one might be the first where you're starting to actually feel yourself again. Or maybe a new version of yourself you’re still trying to recognize.

You pull your blanket up to your chest and close your eyes.

Somewhere across campus, Rachel Lin is probably drawing. Maybe feet. Maybe hands. Maybe something she doesn’t intend to show anyone. And for once, you’re not wondering if you’re part of her plan or just passing through it.

You’re wondering what it means to slow down.

You’re wondering what kind of story your hands would tell if you let someone draw the whole shape of you.

Sleep doesn’t take long after that.