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Procrastination. Noun. Putting off, delaying, or deferring an action to a later time.
For as long as you can remember, this has been your most familiar flaw—a quiet parasite thriving on your many excuses. Rarely loud or dramatic, it crept quietly, continuously whispering excuses that always seemed most reasonable in the moment to convince you.
Homework due tomorrow? You reassured yourself that you worked better when the clock was ticking, that the impending pressure of a looming deadline sharpened your focus.
Cleaning half of the dormitory? That could wait thirty minutes—after all, you were in the middle of watching an ‘extremely interesting’ video, and what harm could one more scroll on TikTok do?
With every passing second, minute, and hour, tomorrow has a terrible habit of slipping further and further away. Each delay felt harmless when viewed in isolation; together, however, they wove into an intricate pattern that stole your time before you even realized it was taken to begin with.
Procrastination simply wasn’t just an unhealthy habit of yours, constantly stalling and putting off tasks in your life that were in desperate need of completion. It crept into every corner of your life, wrapping itself around every task or responsibility; subtly, slyly, and patiently waiting while conjuring up the perfect response to stop you from doing what you must. A thief so cunning you hardly noticed its presence.
Now was no exception.
Your dorm in Ophelia Hall had become suffocatingly humid, causing you to realize just how stifling the room had become. The building seemed to have trapped all the heat into its brick walls and narrow hallways, holding onto the extreme summer air. Sweat clung to your skin like a second layer, sticky and relentless.
With no air conditioning, no reliable fans, you and your roommate had been relying on the open windows to invite in what little relief the odd gust of wind could bring.
Sitting at the desk by an open window, attempting to feel the tiniest bit of relief that the stray breeze would bring. It would feel cool against your skin, almost merciful. Though the majority of the time, the air was still thick, consumed by the heat, causing the room to feel like your personal oven.
The desk was buried beneath notebooks and a laptop containing your unfinished essay you should've been working on—every logical thought in your mind knows that—but the harsh, cruel warmth and excuses stirring in your head won again.
Blinking cursor on your laptop screen taunting you, each pulse a silent reminder of how little progress you’d made. Lines half-formed and broken off in places where your motivation had fled. You know you should stay, press your fingertips onto the keys, and force something reasonable to be written into existence—but instead, your eyes shifted to the door, lingering.
Realistically? You know that anything you wrote right now would be utter nonsense. The room was unbearable; suffocating you, and your essay felt like a living thing waiting to try to choke you. So you put your footwear on and left the room, which felt like a torture device.
The hallways of Ophelia Hall offered little relief. The unpleasantly high temperature continued to radiate through the corridor, emanating from the brick walls. Other students passed by you while walking down the stairs, fanning themselves with notebooks or quickly walking past you all while stumbling on a couple of steps on the way toward the quad.
Your feet carried you down the wooden steps and out into the open ground. For a moment, you simply stood still, releasing the deep breath you didn't realise you were holding onto—savoring the way the air felt outside.
The courtyard was just as packed as you expected it to be, groups of outcasts sitting on benches, grass, and on the stairs leading down to ground level, leaving you to maneuver around them without accidentally standing or tripping over someone.
Drifting past the chattering clusters of students, catching short snippets of their conversation. Duels are being scheduled, gossip is circulating about Wednesday's bravery in saving the school, and one particularly loud voice is boasting about how they ‘aced’ Professor Orloff's latest essay prompt. You winced at that last one, a pang of guilt curling in the pit of your stomach.
That guilt was quickly smothered by excuses. Maybe this was productive, in its own way. Principal Weems had been sending mountains of emails pestering you about extracurricular activities around the school, to take advantage of them and become ‘well-rounded’. Now, with the new principal, Principal Dort, those emails have by far tripled, to say the least.
Yet now—when your dormitory had become unbearable and your essay a looming monster—you considered that wandering into one of those clubs wasn’t the worst way to kill time.
And wasn’t it technically responsible to finally listen? To take initiative? Yes—that sounded much better than ‘abandoning your essay.’
Your wandering steps eventually carried you toward the bulletin board, cluttered with brightly colored flyers affixed with staples. Eyes skimming over the suspects. Drama auditions for the upcoming play are essentially covering the majority of the board, asking for more applicants. Fencing club, bold lettered fonts along with crossed swords printed in black ink. Archey… Choir…
But one in particular was different.
Buried underneath all the other colourful, carefully designed, printed advertisements was a handmade flyer scribbled in with letters containing a small description, and scattered coloured sketches of bumblebees which looked as though drawn with enthusiasm rather than precision.
Your head was slightly tilted to the side at that, lips tugging up at the corners.
The Hummers.
Before your brain could come up with excuses and overthink it—before you could remind yourself of the blinking cursor still waiting back in your dorm—your gaze shifted towards the bottom, where the directions were “past the greenhouses, down the dirt path. Look for the shed with the bee painted outside!!!”
Before you could change your mind, your feet were already moving, carrying you in the east wing of the school where the greenhouses were located. The air grew quieter as you drifted past all the buildings, the chatter that filled campus fading behind you.
The world was drastically quieter out here, with only the faint hum of cicadas and birds squawking. Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, scattering golden patches across the path you were following.
The shed appeared sooner than anticipated, tucked into the outskirts of the woods. It was relatively easy to spot, considering the increase in the buzzing yellow and black insects, hives, and the shed with the painting as the poster explained.
The bumblebee painting on the door was charming in its simplicity, its paint slightly faded and chipping. Something about it felt inviting, though you hesitated, hovering just outside.
You paused at the threshold, fingers hovering over the latch. Part of you wanted to laugh at yourself—you’d abandoned an assignment that would actually affect your grade to investigate what looks like a half-forgotten deserted club. And yet, standing here, you didn't seem to regret it.
Okay, just a quick peek, then you’d head back and force yourself to finish your essay.
Except when you nudged the door open, you didn't expect to see him.
Eugene Ottinger.
You know him—at least in the way people knew of each other from sitting in the same classes and trading half-glances when your professors asked impossible questions. He was definitely a quiet boy, not invisible, but always hovering at the edges of groups, more comfortable with insects than with classmates. You’d never spoken more than a polite ‘thanks’ when he’d passed you a worksheet once.
Sure, he had been given the nickname ‘BeeBoy’, but you'd have thought that was because of his ability to control them, not because of the club he was a part of.
Now here he was, hunched over a small hive on the workbench. Hands moving with delicate precision as he adjusted a tiny brush over the hive’s frame, unruly curls that were rather frizzed at the edges from what you can assume was the summer air’s doing, and glasses low just under the bridge of his nose, looking as though they'd slid down.
Bees were scattered around the interior, buzzing a tune as they flew past.
His head shot up when the door creaked. Wide brown eyes locked onto yours, and for a second, he just stared like you’d caught him doing something secret. He nearly toppled over a jar of open honey in his scramble to straighten up.
“Uh—hi?” His voice cracked while pushing using his middle finger to push the glasses back up to their correct placement.
You swallowed nervously, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, causing the wooden boards to creak under the weight.
This was a terrible idea.
“I…uh… saw the flyer-” you started, reaching your hand up to rub the back of your neck, attempting to calm some nerves. “On the bulletin board… I thought I’d check it out.”
This was going horrendously already.
Eugene blinked at you, his eyes narrowed and brows knitting together as if trying to figure out whether you were serious or joking. This caused his glasses to slide back down to the previous position. “Oh, right. The flyer,” he said slowly.
You nodded back to him.
He glanced around the shed nervously, avoiding eye contact, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the hive frame. “Most people… don’t actually come,” he admitted quietly
“Oh…” you said, struggling to find a response without sounding strange, “I mean, it looked interesting enough for me.” Forcing a small smile onto your face while vaguely gesturing towards the hives and jars of honey spread around.
Eugene blinked at you again, and for the first time, a faint, hesitant smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Oh. Okay… well I guess that’s… nice.” He spoke softly, unsure, but there was a flicker of relief in his posture, like he hadn’t expected anyone to actually show interest.
An awkward silence enveloped the two of you; the buzzing rhythm of the bees was the only thing heard in the space.
You swallowed, trying to fill the silence without sounding completely awkward. “So… Do you handle all the bees here by yourself?” you asked, taking another glance at the hives and jars.
You noticed his shoulders tensing a fraction before relaxing again. “Mostly, yeah,” he admitted, “it’s not too bad once you get used to them. Not many people stick around, though. Bees… they can be intimidating to most.”
Eugene's eyes flicked towards the workbench, then back at you.
“So… you normally work alone?”
A nod was returned to you.
You nodded back, trying to look confident even though your palms were slightly sweaty. “I mean… I’ve never worked with bees before, shocker… but I… I think I can manage”
A small chuckle escaped him; it was so faint you had almost missed it. “Most people don’t, but yeah, you’ll be fine. Just be careful and gentle.” He paused, then added, “If you want, I can… show you how to handle some of the equipment?”
You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling a mixture of nerves and excitement. “Yeah, I’d… I’d like that,” you said softly, nodding.
For a moment, the heat, the dorm, and the blinking cursor were completely forgotten. There was just you, him, and the steady hum of the bees surrounding the shed.
The quiet rhythm of the bees, and the strange, unexpected feeling that maybe procrastination had led you somewhere… kind of perfect.
—------------
Weeks and months had passed since that interaction, though it hardly felt like it in the rhythm of the shed.
What had started as a hesitant visit to stop the principal nagging and serve as an excuse for your procrastination became a ritual.
You’d find yourself voluntarily wandering past the greenhouses with more ease, the buzzing of bees no longer startling but comforting. Eugene was there every time you’d show up, always teaching you the specific ways that kept the hives alive and thriving.
You slowly learned to move with patience, to read the tiny signals of the bees, to notice subtle changes in the combs and behavior of the queen.
And Eugene? He changed, too, in small ways that others wouldn't notice. His nervous glances became comfortable looks of consideration as you took the time and effort to learn how to take care of the insects; his shy, awkward chuckles turned into shared laughter over minor mishaps—a jar of honey tipped over, a stubborn frame, or accidentally getting startled by the odd bee. Eugene’s quiet demeanor had softened into warmth around you, his occasional smiles now frequent and unguarded.
You began to talk more as well. At first, it was mainly about the bees and equipment; how the flowers around Nevermore would attract different species.
But gradually, as time went on, the conversation spilled into other realms: favorite books, hobbies, music tastes, shared dread of certain classes. Flowing out easily.
The shed became your shared world. Sunlight streaming through cracks in the wooden walls, dust dancing lazily in corners, and, of course, the humming bees. You started to leave excuses behind, actively looking forward to the Hummers shed, focusing for hours in the calm environment.
As well as you two getting closer you began to notice the small things about him—how his eyes crinked and his smile lines would appear when he laughed, the way he’d tilt his head when focusing on something causing his glasses to constantly slide down his nose, and the intense amount of eye contact he’d make; whenever you’d talk his eyes were always on yours or you’d always catch him unexpectedly looking at you as if to check you’re alright before looking away.
Familiarity brought closeness that neither of you had anticipated. You stopped feeling awkward around him. Laughter came easier, conversations lingered longer, and silences no longer felt uncomfortable.
One evening, as the sun began to set, painting the sky in soft oranges and pinks, the golden hour casting everything in its magic glow. You found yourself leaning against the workbench while Eugene carefully brushed pollen from a frame.
He paused for a moment before his gaze flicked up at you through his glasses. The light caught on his curls and the faint dusting of pollen on his hands, and something about it made your chest ache in a way you couldn't quite identify or understand why.
Eugene carefully set the frame down onto the workbench, brushing his palms together as if stalling for time. His lips parted, then closed again as if the words had gotten tangled somewhere in his throat.
“I… uh–” he began, then gave a nervous laugh while shaking his head. “Sorry. I don’t know how to say this without sounding…dumb,” he admitted, avoiding eye contact.
You tilted your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “That’s alright, try me”
He hesitated again, then looked at you properly—really looked at you. His eyes, soft brown behind the glass, held something… something vulnerable perhaps?
“I just… I really like having you here. Not just because you help. Because it’s you.”
The words landed with a quiet weight, and for once, you didn't feel the need to fill in the silence. You felt the hum of the bees around you, the golden light on your skin, the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat.
You took a step closer, close enough to see the way his breath had caught in his chest, close enough that your fingers brushed against his on the workbench. His hand twitched at that, as if he wasn’t sure whether to pull away or hold on.
“I really like being here, and not just because of the bees.” Your voice had lowered to a soft whisper. Your gaze drifted down to his lips momentarily before coming back to meet his eyes.
His eyes had done the same as yours, giving you a sign that we were thinking the same thing.
So you made the choice to take the lead.
Leaning in, you gently pressed your lips against his; the kiss was light, tentative, carrying the unspoken words you both hadn't dared to say. It only lasted for a moment, but it was enough—warm, real, and grounding.
When you had pulled back, Eugene's cheeks were flushed pink, and the smallest, brightest smile broke across his face.
“I—” he began murmuring before stuttering on the words “I guess that wasn't so dumb after all”
You let out a soft laugh, heart still racing. “Not even close”
Outside, the bees hummed their endless rhythmic song, golden hour spilling through the crack of the Hummer's shed walls, wrapping the moment in a glow that made everything else fade into the background.
For once, your procrastination had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.