Zeland had started to mildly question his sexual orientation, because he had diagnosed himself to be insanely attracted to this piece of white wall along the East Wing corridor, or at least that was what he had gathered from his corresponding actions.

It had been three months into his return to this campus, and for every Monday of the three months, he would always find a way to walk past this corridor without fail, stop exactly three steps away from the window, an arms length away from the wall, and look from the ceiling to the ground, and ground to ceiling. Exactly two times.

His actions were seemingly natural, as though ingrained in his muscle memory, and as though there used to be something, something important, on the blank wall here. Yet whenever he searched his memories, he would come up blank.

"What are you looking at?" Quayn looked at the wall, and back at Zeland.

"Was there... something here before?"

"I don't walk this way." Quayn shrugged helpfully. "C'mon, we'll be late." The redhead trudged on, battling his way through the crowd.

Zeland gave the wall one last look, before turning. He should really stop turning this way, it didn't seem very healthy.

"Dude, have you started Morgan's assignment yet?" Zeland caught up with Quayn, asking, exasperated.

"Which one?"

"The one due next week." D'Fray Morgan, their architect professor, was inhumane.

Despite the fact that he had the entire Santa-Claus vibe going on about him, he's a monster—the most sadistic kind that'll blatantly put off assigning assignment only to collate them and dish 'em all out in mountainous piles at his students, on, a, Friday.

Of all days, Friday.

Owing to their professor's dark humour, Zeland was drowning in the pile of assignment that just so happened to all have ridiculously tight deadlines.

"I'm halfway through." Quayn said offhandedly.

"Dude." Zeland shot him a glare, betrayed, "you're not human."

"How far are you through the assignment?" Quayn turned the corner, and Zeland skated round the crowd grudgingly, leaving a blatant trail of his overflowing misery in his wake.

"Your question should be 'have you started', and no I haven't, damnit. I have zero inspiration." He raked a hand through his ash brown hair, frustrated. He'd been staring at a blank piece of paper for several sessions already.

They reached their lecture theatre, and Quayn pulled open the heavy door. A blast of air-con ballooned out, and the two of them slipped in, slumping down at the vacant seats left in the last few rows.

"Don't you have your photog card? If you need inspiration, you can check the photog society, they have loads of resources." Quayn suddenly said.

Zeland frowned. "Photog card? What's that?" He knew he only have three cards in his wallet—his I/C, driver's license and no not a credit card, but a debit card.

"The brown one you use as a bookmark in one of your textbooks?" Quayn prompted him.

"That one?" Zeland paused, he did vaguely remember he had been using a card to bookmark his important pages in a textbook. He'd always thought it was some random telephone card; it didn't have much writings on it to suggest to him otherwise.

"Yeah that one." Quayn took out his notes.

Zeland slumped in his seat, searching his memory which textbook it was he slotted the card into. "I'll check them out. Thanks man."

"Sure."

"Now let me copy your notes, thanks."