Anastasia kicked Giona’s chair. He’d fallen asleep with his face buried in a massive philosophy book. All their classmates turned to look at them, and Anastasia could already hear the whispers and muffled giggles coming from the tables at the back of the room.

  Professor Fioravanti adjusted her thick glasses on her nose, her voice sharp and tinged with self-satisfaction. “Giona?” A brief pause followed, during which the professor tilted her head theatrically to one side. “Were you sleeping?”

  Anastasia couldn’t help but feel a pang of frustration—not at Giona, but at the absurdity of the scene unfolding around her. Professor Fioravanti’s theatrical sighs, her exaggerated head tilt—it was all a calculated performance, a transparent attempt to corner and humiliate him in front of everyone. And the muffled snickers from their classmates only added to the irritation, feeding the professor’s smugness like oxygen to a fire.

  Fioravanti adjusted her thick glasses on the bridge of her nose with deliberate precision.

  Here we go again. Her signature move.“Time to crush someone and make it look classy”, she’s thinking.

  But Anastasia didn’t just watch and listen. As a navigator, she could feel the emotional charge in the room, like currents running through the air. The professor’s satisfaction scratched at her senses, sharp and grating, while Giona’s emotions flickered like an unsteady flame—an uneasy mix of irritation and exhaustion.

  She took a deep breath, steadying herself. Letting her emotions rise to the surface was the first step. Memories followed naturally, unbidden but vivid—the professor’s smirk during their last argument, the hollow sound of her mocking voice as she belittled Giona. It was like stepping into those memories all over again. Living them, not just recalling them. Almost instinctively, Anastasia thought of actors—how they had to dig deep to embody their roles. Like how Heath Ledger must’ve felt becoming the Joker, channeling emotion until it completely consumed him.

  She held onto that feeling, letting it deepen and take shape. Then, with practiced focus, she let it spill outward—a deliberate act of illumination. She pushed her frustration gently toward Giona, but softened it with an undercurrent of calm support. It wasn’t words she sent, but an emotional message, unspoken yet clear: Let it go. I’ve got your back.

  Anastasia knew she’d never see exactly what Giona would feel. Her memories wouldn’t reach him, but the emotions they carried would. His mind would give them meaning in its own way, likely through a memory of his own—something sharp and familiar, like a moment of his own frustration or a time when someone had quietly stood by him. That part was his to interpret, but she didn’t doubt he’d understand her intent.

  The shift came quickly, subtle but noticeable. Giona’s irritation settled, replaced by something firmer—determination, maybe even confidence. He was grounding himself, finding his spark again. Anastasia leaned back in her seat, letting the connection dissolve.

  He’d handle it. He always did. But even as she felt her own annoyance ebb, one quiet question lingered in her mind: Why does he always have to push them? Can’t he ever just let things be?

  On the other hand, that was precisely why Fioravanti couldn’t stand him—he was too quick, too clever for her.

  To be fair, the professor had her reasons to be on edge. Philosophy lessons had turned into a stage for showcasing students’ engineering skills: building paper airplanes, boats, hats, and even BIC pen cannons made from reversed ink tubes and rubber bands. Since one student had started distributing thick rubber bands perfectly suited to the purpose, the battles had escalated, with paper projectiles zipping across the room, hitting desks, students, and windows, all while Fioravanti kept her eyes firmly on her book. Some even began chewing pieces of paper into disgusting, pulpy wads that they then threw at the ceiling, where they stuck. And they are still there… disgusting! They called those “constellations,” and the class erupted into laughter every time.

  And yet, out of everyone, Giona was still her favorite target—the object of her frustration.

  “Let me help you,” the professor pressed on, her tone dripping with false kindness. “We were discussing Parmenides and how, like all pre-Socratic philosophers, he sought the principle behind all things—arché in Ancient Greek. And we also covered his arguments about being and nothingness. Does any of this ring a bell?”

  “Professor, I’m very sorry—I’m really tired, and I fell asleep at my desk. But…” Giona smiled, clearly confident in himself, “I’d like to try anyway.”

  The class burst out laughing louder than before. Anastasia felt repulsed by the smug grin spreading across Fioravanti’s face, as if she were saying, Let’s see what you’ve got.

  “There’s no need—if you were asleep, you couldn’t have heard anything. But if you want to try…”

  Giona started speaking before she could finish the sentence. The class fell silent; everyone was visibly intrigued. Some hoped for more laughs, while others, like Anastasia, were eager to see Giona prove Fioravanti wrong. Being, nothingness… let’s see. You were talking here, right? Not to the walls, but to us. And we”—he paused dramatically—“at least those of us who weren’t drooling on our desks, were listening.” The chuckles from the back grew louder, and he let them fade before continuing. “So, think about it. There’s something between us—something invisible but real. Like… ever had a conversation where you didn’t even have to finish the sentence, because the other person already knew what you meant? It’s not nothing. It’s a connection. The world is full of those, even if they’re hard to see.

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  He paused for a moment, just a few seconds, to think. He made a circular motion with his index finger as he nodded to himself, murmuring a quiet “yes,” before resuming. “So, nothingness doesn’t exist—it’s just a human creation, an abstract concept. It’s just a word, really. Even nothingness is something—it exists the moment we name it. Nothingness—something that truly isn’t—can’t exist, right? Being, on the other hand, is everything that exists—it’s the whole world, a network of connections that sometimes light up and sometimes don’t. But, to be felt, understood, and communicated, it needs the nothingness, it needs connection.”

  He glanced at the palm of his hand as he said that final word, smiling. Then he looked up, his eyes locking confidently on the professor. “There you have it—being and nothingness!”

  The class went still. Not everyone grasped what Giona had been talking about—honestly, that was asking too much—but no one had expected this. The confidence, the eloquence, the sheer conviction. It was like seeing a totally different side of him. Even Anastasia, though she’d known him for years, found herself caught off guard.

  Anastasia’s eyes flicked over to Francesca and Antonio, their classmates from the School of Illumination. They were staring at Giona, mouths slightly agape, their awe unmistakable. She knew exactly what they were thinking. They’d understood Giona’s words perfectly—how he wasn’t just talking about abstract connections, but about the Light itself. To be honest, it feels like cheating…

  The rest of the class? Not so much. Most of them just sat in silence, their eyes darting between Giona and the professor, unsure of what to expect next. Fioravanti adjusted her glasses, her movements slow and deliberate, clearly relishing the power she held over the room. Here we go again, Anastasia thought. Her signature move.

  But, before she could say or do anything, a sudden burst of clapping shattered the silence.

  What the… Giacomo, of course, who else.

  He was leading the charge, his applause ricocheting off the classroom walls and pulling everyone else into chaos.

  That was it—Fioravanti snapped. She slammed the register down on her desk, the sharp crack cutting through the noise, and barked at the students to quiet down.

  Finally, she stood up, planting both hands on the register like it was a gavel in her courtroom.

  “Well, thank you, Giona. Very nice effort,” she said, her tone coated in sweet venom. “But it’s late, and I need to continue the lesson on Parmenides. And no, that’s not what I said. It’s not what’s written in the book, and it’s certainly not what Parmenides said. Of course, in a philosophy class, we make room for everyone’s opinions—at the appropriate time.”

  Anastasia rolled her eyes. Right. As if she ever listens to anyone’s opinions.

  “But,” Fioravanti continued, “what I asked for was simple. I asked you to repeat what I said. Today, I intended to explain Parmenides in full, but thanks to your… creative detour, I wasn’t able to finish. Let me remind the class: Parmenides said this—‘What is, is, and cannot not be; while what is not, is not, and cannot be.’ He also said that nothing of what is can arise from nothing.”

  Her gaze swept across the room. “Is that clear?”

  The front-row students nodded eagerly, their murmurs of agreement almost smug.

  Giona turned to Anastasia, leaning close and whispering, “But… didn’t I just say that?” His face was a mix of confusion and disbelief.

  Anastasia sighed inwardly. Sometimes Giona could be brilliant and completely clueless too. As if his words could mean anything to Fioravanti! She gave him a small, sharp gesture: drop it.

  “Alright,” Fioravanti said, glancing again at the clock. “Class dismissed. Next week, we’ll discuss Heraclitus, another equally complex philosopher. Please come prepared—well-rested and awake this time. Everything I covered about Parmenides today can be found in chapters nine and ten. Read them. Before we begin Heraclitus, I’d like to discuss the fragment at the start of chapter ten. It’s about truth and persuasion.”

  The bell rang, and the class erupted into its usual end-of-day chaos. Despite the lesson being far more lively than normal, the students bolted for the door as if escaping a cage.

  Giona remained where he was, hands still planted on his desk. Slowly, he turned to Anastasia, his voice low but insistent. “But that’s exactly what I said, right? It’s the same thing! Being can’t not be. And non-being—it’s just an illusion.”

  “Let it go,” Anastasia said. “She just wanted to put you in your place.”

  Giona shook his head, his confusion still evident. “But I don’t get it—what’s the point if she’s not even listening?”

  Anastasia shot him a knowing look, her tone light but tinged with sarcasm. “You’ll figure it out in about ten years. It’s called being a teacher.”

  Giacomo snorted, falling into step beside them. “It’s called being a jerk,” he muttered, grinning as though he’d won an argument no one was having.

  The trio laughed—just loud enough for a few lingering classmates to turn and stare, but not so loud they couldn’t enjoy their own private amusement. For a brief moment, the tension of Fioravanti’s theatrics melted away.

  “Food?” Giacomo rubbed his stomach. “I’m starving. I’d eat Fioravanti’s head—forget Parmenides, or the connection between all things. Which, by the way reminded me of a nice, hot bowl of noodles!” Anastasia rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her grin.

  “I’d rather sleep,” Giona muttered, visibly tired, but Giacomo shoved him toward the door.

  “Sleep tonight. Unless, of course, you get kidnapped again.”

  Anastasia whipped around, her glare cutting through the air like a blade. “Are you seriously joking about this? He almost died last night, Giacomo! This isn’t funny.”

  “Shhhh!” Giona hissed, holding up his hands. “Let’s not shout that to the entire building. Remember: last night, we were all at home. Fast asleep. Nothing unusual happened. Got it?”

  Anastasia nodded reluctantly. He was right. They should not talk about last night in public.

  Giacomo opened his mouth, likely to toss out another quip, but she didn’t give him the chance. “Anyway,” she said, her tone brisk but deliberate, “we don’t have time for food. The Art class is across the building, and it starts in fifteen minutes.”

  The shift was enough to pull their focus back. Giacomo grumbled something under his breath about starving, while Giona adjusted his bag, already walking toward the door. It wasn’t much, but it worked. The tension dissolved, leaving the trio in their usual rhythm—fractious, maybe, but intact.

  Art Education was her favorite. It was a space where creativity flowed and the rest of the world faded. Poetry at the School of Light was even better, but that wouldn’t start until June 21. The date marked the beginning of their final year, before graduation and becoming ready for the advanced studies in their field of expertise in the Light. Which, of course, for her, would be Navigation. And I’ll finally learn to navigate with more people at once!

  She held onto the thought as she walked toward the next class, the sticky residue of paint on her fingertips already vivid in her mind—the slight tackiness as it dried, the faint streaks left from smoothing it on paper. A beautiful mess, like the vibrations of the Light itself.

  She didn’t try to share this feeling it through navigation, let alone talk about it. Giona and Giacomo wouldn’t get it. They’d either think she was mad—or worse, unimaginably dull.