The Table. A Narrative
The library closed at nine. They had been there since two.
Eight of them, arranged around the long table on the second floor — the one beneath the window that never closed properly, the one that let in, depending on the season, either cold air or the smell of the linden trees from the courtyard below. It was October. Cold air.
Rareș had claimed the corner seat, as always. His laptop was open but the screen faced the wall. He did this deliberately, so no one could see what he was doing, though everyone knew he was doing the same thing they were all doing: asking the AI to explain thermodynamic cycles in plain language, then reading the answer twice and pretending he had understood it himself.
This was 2025. The AI had a name — several names, depending on the platform. On TikTok it appeared in sixty-second clips, speaking with a voice that was warm and unhurried, explaining photosynthesis or the French Revolution or the causes of anxiety, and always ending with: Does that help? Let me know if you want me to go deeper. The phrase had become a joke among them. Teodora said it now whenever someone asked her anything. Does that help? Let me know if you want me to go deeper. She said it without smiling, which made it funnier.
But tonight no one was laughing.
The exam was in three days. Biochemistry, second year, Professor Anghel, who had failed thirty per cent of the previous cohort and seemed to consider this a reasonable outcome.



