The morning air carried that peculiar weight only Southern California could manage — the heat of the sun, already pressing through thin clouds, and the buzz of a student body not quite awake.
Alex arrived to AP Philosophy five minutes early. She didn't bother pretending it wasn't intentional.
She told herself it was because today's discussion would be good. Because she had her notes, and a strong opinion, and caffeine in her veins.
Not because Elliot always arrived early, too.
She walked in — and there he was. Third row, end of the aisle. His notebook already open. His pen already moving.
He didn't look up when she slid into the desk beside him. But she noticed the corner of his mouth twitch. A smile, almost.
Mr. Evans entered, clapped his hands together.
"Today," he declared, "we face the abyss."
There was a collective groan. Except from two students.
"Nietzsche," Evans went on, pacing dramatically. "Beloved and feared. Misquoted endlessly. Let's talk about Beyond Good and Evil. Specifically, his claim that morality is a human construct — and that embracing the chaos beneath is the only path to true self."
He turned to the whiteboard and wrote:
"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster."
"And when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you."
Alex raised her hand before anyone else could. Of course.
"I think Nietzsche was partially right. Morality isn't universal. But that doesn't mean it's meaningless. Just because we create values doesn't make them invalid. Society needs frameworks."
Elliot didn't raise his hand. He just spoke.
"Frameworks aren't morality. They're survival instincts."
Alex turned sharply toward him.
"Oh, we're doing this again?"
He nodded once. "Gladly."
Students leaned in. Notebooks closed. Popcorn energy.
Alex folded her arms. "So you're saying Nietzsche was right? That we should throw out ethics and embrace chaos?"
Elliot's voice was calm. "I'm saying he wasn't advocating chaos. He was exposing the myth of objective morality. The idea that good and evil are fixed binaries — that's the illusion."
"But we need those binaries," Alex shot back. "Without them, everything's relative. That's how tyrants justify horror."
"Exactly," Elliot replied. "Tyrants use fake morality. Nietzsche's point is that by confronting the abyss, we reclaim authorship of our values. Not adopt someone else's."
She blinked.
Okay. That was… not what she expected.
"You think people should create their own moral compass?"
"I think they already do. Most just lie about where it came from."
Alex considered that.
"And what's yours, then?" she asked.
He looked at her, and for a moment the classroom faded.
"I believe the value of a life is measured by its awareness. Not achievement. Not virtue. Just… consciousness."
The words landed like stones dropped into deep water.
Mr. Evans, eyes wide, clapped once. "Well then! Carter versus Dunphy, round three. Anyone else feel qualified to step in?"
No one did.
After class, Alex caught up to him outside.
"That was a neat trick," she said.
"What was?"
"Hijacking Nietzsche to sound profound without being confrontational."
He looked amused. "I thought I was being confrontational."
She narrowed her eyes. "You have a philosophy for everything, don't you?"
"No. Just the parts that hurt."
Alex didn't respond immediately. Then:
"Is that what this is for you? Pain management?"
Elliot turned to face her fully. "No. Pain was the philosophy. This is the recovery."
She felt that more than she wanted to.
They walked together, neither acknowledging it.
"I still think you're wrong about morality," she said.
"I'm glad you do."
"Why?"
"Because arguing with you forces me to refine the parts I thought were finished."
Alex flushed — not from embarrassment, but from something closer to adrenaline.
"You're annoying," she muttered.
"You're stimulating," he replied.
"Still annoying."
In the library that afternoon, she found a copy of Thus Spoke Zarathustra. She'd never read it. She hated how that bothered her now.
She opened it at random and read:
"You have your way. I have my way. As for the right way, the correct way, and the only way — it does not exist."
She thought about Elliot. About how his calmness was never passive. How everything he said made her feel like she was standing on a cliff edge and being invited to jump — not to fall, but to see.
Then she flipped the book shut.
She liked her cliffs with railings, thank you very much.
That night, Elliot walked alone beneath the orange streetlights. The world was soft at this hour — as if the day's noise had finally collapsed into reflection.
He whispered a line he once read:
"The philosopher must be both torch and mirror."
He wondered what he was to Alex.
A flame?
Or something that showed her parts of herself she didn't want to see?
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small folded note — the one she'd scribbled last week in irritation and tossed on his desk before leaving:
"You sound like someone trying very hard not to sound lonely."
He hadn't thrown it away.
Because maybe she was right.