Chapter 2The Decimal Point That Ruined Her

The weeks blurred into a focused, rhythmic haze.

I lived in the lab. Every time a result came in, I synced it across my backups. I sent myself a weekly email log. My lab notebook never left my sight; I took it to the cafeteria, the gym, even the bathroom.

Beth, meanwhile, began cultivating her "tribe." She started bringing lattes to the lab—one for everyone, except me.

She didn’t "forget." She would count heads right in front of me.

"One, two, three... okay, that’s everyone who asked," she’d say, then turn on her heel.

Hannah, a senior student, walked over with her cup, whispering, "Did you and Beth have a falling out?"

"No," I said.

"Then why—"

"Maybe she’s just stressed."

Hannah looked at me skeptically but let it drop.

In mid-November, I was in the campus restroom when I heard voices in the stalls.

"Julie is just... she’s getting paranoid," Beth’s voice echoed against the tile. "She locks everything. She carries that notebook like it’s the Holy Grail. Who does that? It’s not normal."

"Wait, really?" That was Kaitlyn, a junior. "That sounds a bit intense."

"I live with her, Kaitlyn. I see it every night. She wouldn't even share a basic PowerPoint with me. I just wanted to learn, and she acted like I was trying to rob her. It’s honestly kind of scary."

The sound of the running faucet drowned out my footsteps. I dried my hands, looked at my reflection—colder, sharper than before—and pushed the door open.

Kaitlyn was just coming out of a stall. Her face went beet-red.

"J-Julie..."

"The dispenser is out of paper towels," I said calmly. "You might want to let maintenance know."

I walked out.

From that day on, the atmosphere in the lab shifted. When I spoke during group sessions, no one followed up. When the group went to lunch, they didn't look my way. I’d walk into the breakroom and the conversation would die like a snuffed candle.

I saw Kaitlyn whispering to another girl as I walked by with my backpack. "See? She’s got the notebook. Everywhere. Isn't that a bit much?"

I filled my water bottle and kept walking.

In early December, Whitaker called me into his office. He sat behind his mahogany desk, fingers interlaced.

"Julie, I’ve been hearing some concerning reports about your lack of collaboration."

"Concerning how, exactly?"

"Data sharing. Literature discussions. You seem to be isolating yourself from the team."

"My data is in a critical phase. Once it’s ready for publication, I’ll be happy to share."

Whitaker adjusted his glasses. "Academia requires an open mind, Julie. You can't produce world-class work in a vacuum."

"Dr. Whitaker, you’ve seen my progress. The trends are excellent—"

"I know," he snapped. "But a good project doesn't excuse a toxic personality. This lab is a team. Do you understand?"

I gripped my notebook through the fabric of my bag. I said nothing.

"Fine. Go back to work. Think about what I said."

As I opened the door, I ran into Beth. She was carrying a steaming cup of coffee. She blinked, surprised to see me, then offered a small, sympathetic smile.

"Julie? Did the meeting go okay?"

I brushed past her without a word.

Behind me, I heard her soft knock. "Dr. Whitaker? I brought you an Americano. I saw your light was still on and figured you were pulling another late one."

Whitaker’s voice drifted through the closing door, ten times softer than it had been with me. "You’re too kind, Beth. Come in, sit down."

I walked faster.

Back at my desk, I opened my laptop. Thirty-two backup emails sat in my inbox, each with a clear, unforgeable timestamp. I opened the latest one. Three control groups. Perfect results.

The project was six months away from being a breakthrough.

In my last life, Beth’s name was on the header of that breakthrough.

Not this time.

I closed the email and opened a new document. Title: Beth - Loan and Repayment Log.

She hadn't paid back a single cent.

I saved the document, synced it to three clouds, and shut my eyes.

From the top bunk, Beth’s voice drifted down.

"Julie?"

"Yeah."

"What do you think of Dr. Whitaker? As a person, I mean."

"He’s an advisor. Does it matter if he’s a good person?"

Beth let out a small, airy laugh. "I guess not. Goodnight."

I didn’t say it back. I stared at the ceiling and counted to three hundred until her breathing leveled out. Then I rolled over, pressing my notebook under my pillow.