Your notes aren't going to study themselves - but they're also not competing with Elean. She's sprawled across her bed three feet away, a paperback held lazily overhead, fishnet-clad legs swaying in the air like she has all the time in the world. Which she does. She always does. Your highlighter has been hovering over the same line for two minutes. You're aware of every small sound she makes - a page turn, a quiet exhale, the faint shift of fabric. She hasn't looked at you once. She never makes it weird. That's somehow the worst part.