As I sit at the corner table in the hall, I see different personalities. Different, yet the same. A group of undergraduate Accounting students, ledgers and calculators littering their tables. One person's voice stands out, loud and boisterous but also very helpful. Another group, a bit more quiet, have their readings pushed to one side and prioritizing breakfast over anything else. A girl takes another table, her calculator out and her pen and paper on top. But she takes off her glasses and puts her head down, hoping to catch at least a few minutes of sleep. Professors walk in and out of the study hall, some with food and papers; others, just their phones. People are already milling about.

The bells chime and the students and professors stand up in a panicked frenzy. Exams are looming over their heads, wondering how many answers they could get right; wondering how many students are going to fail the exams. As soon as the last student leaves, the hall becomes a little melancholic. Nothing is left.

And it's another day in the university.

This was her first party with her college friends.

This wasn't her first party, but this was the first one she had with her college friends. She hasn't even gone on a party with her best friends. She went on parties but neither group of friends knew she did. She preferred going to parties alone, create a new identity. No one knew who she was when she was alone. She's met a few people here and there, but not close enough to add them up on Facebook. But this was a birthday celebration and if she declined, she'd be the only one who didn't attend. Plus she did kind of owe her friend for bailing on the after-semester obligatory party her friend planned.

In the car ride, she was being lectured about what to do and what not to do in the club. Pretending she had no idea about anything, she listens intently, schooling her features when they tell her not to get drunk. Partying alone has made her responsible of her drinks and anything else she intakes. When she wasn't on the dance floor, she was at the bar, chatting up the bartender. Sometimes, the best conversationalists can be found at the bar.

She was pulled out of her thoughts when the car stopped. Looking out, she sees the familiar club with the black and gold exterior. She hides a smirk when she sees the bouncer give her a subtle nod in acknowledgement. Her friends were wearing dresses in different colours and heels that she knew would get uncomfortable after the first hour. She mentally winced at the torture their feet would go through, until she remembered that she had to act like she knew nothing about clubbing. She managed to convince her friends that she'll be fine wearing her ankle boots. Heeled, yes, but not too high to get uncomfortable.

Two hours in, her friends were either getting drunk or getting hit on. She rolls her eyes in amusement before downing her own drink. Just as she was about to stand up and make her way to the dance floor, someone slides against her on the couch and puts his arm around her shoulders. She was about to tell him off when she saw who it was. She chuckles and relaxes against his hold.

You didn't tell me you were coming, he says.

You didn't tell me you were going out, she answers back.

They carry on the conversation until both of them heard the familiar name of the DJ they always danced to. He stood up and offered his hand, gesturing to her that they dance to DJ's set, and she takes it, letting him pull her to the dancefloor. She catches the eye of her friends and she could see their shock and disbelief painting their faces. Before she could answer back, he already pulled her against him and started swaying.

You gonna introduce me to your friends?, he whispered.

Only if you behave, she replies.

Both of them knew what she was talking about. He promises to behave and she leads him to their table where her friends sat. She introduces him to her friends and encourages him to sit with them. He declines, telling him that he was also with his own friends, then gives her a peck on the cheek and makes his way to his own table.

What was that all about?, her friends ask.

Nothing.

Because it was a secret she'd like to hold on to just for a little while longer.

It's six past midnight. You're on Twitter, on Facebook, on Tumblr, on Youtube, on various websites. You shrug and browse some more, thinking you still have enough time. Your readings are laying on one side and you turn a blind eye, coffee sitting innocently on the coaster. You're reading something else–something non-academic. You say, this is just a break, as if you're trying to convince yourself (and you are trying to convince yourself).

It's six past one o'clock in the morning. You reluctantly close all your other tabs and go back to your readings. Four lines in, you open iTunes and play soft instrumentals. They did say that listening to classical music would boost concentration. You pull up the playlist and Erik Satie's Gymnopédie No. 1 plays on your speakers. You concentrate for a while, until you feel your eyelids drooping and you immediately stop that playlist and pull out your collection of EDM tracks. It wakes you up, but it also distracts you from finishing anything.

It's six past two o'clock in the morning. You managed to get half-way through your readings and you applaud yourself for that. You convince yourself that you deserve a break so you go to the kitchen and make yourself a nice bowl of instant noodles–ramyeon so you stay awake. Your lips feel hot from the temperature and spiciness of the noodles and you get distracted. Your readings are lying helplessly on your bed and you're still battling against sleeping.

It's six past three o'clock in the morning. You finally finished the readings and started on the actual paper. You get tense because the deadline is closing in and you have just started on your paper. So you make yourself another cup of coffee and type word upon word. You have no idea if it makes sense because all you see now are jumbled words. You mentally curse yourself for always thinking that you work best under pressure or cramming because of all the results it gives you.

It's six past four o'clock in the morning. You're close to finishing the whole thing. But it frustrates you because the paper still lacked one page as indicated by the required number of pages. You curse out loud this time and type even more glorified bullshit just to reach the minimum number of pages required for the paper. It doesn't make even more sense to you, but you hope it does to your professor. You could barely understand the reading material and you force yourself to wring out more words. You finally reach the required number of pages and sigh in relief. Never forgetting to put in your References page (in APA format, of course), you immediately save the paper. You check it over once again for grammar edits and once satisfied (even if you could barely understand anything because you're so tired), you save it once more. You copy the file to a hard drive and send it to your own personal e-mail (because you're that paranoid), then crash on the bed. Before going to sleep, you set your alarm for school. Doesn't matter if you only get three hours of sleep–as long as you get to class and have a spotless attendance record. That, and you liked the class.

A week later, you get your paper. You grin put your paper in your bag. A 98% perfect was written in red ink, along with one of the most comprehensive papers on this subject I've ever read. Keep up the good work! scrawled on the side.

That four-hour insanity was definitely worth it.