Midterms are over. The halls are quiet. The smell of burnt coffee and despair still lingers in the air. Somewhere, a printer is jammed, and no one is brave enough to fix it.
They say Stevens has no ghosts… but I swear I’ve seen the souls of students still wandering around Babbio muttering, “what was the answer to question four?”
Midterm season isn’t just a week — it’s a haunting.
You start the week thinking, “It can’t be that bad.”
By Wednesday, you’re on your sixth Celsius, your laptop fan sounds like a jet engine, and you’re hearing phantom Canvas notifications.
And somehow, every professor made a blood pact to schedule their exams in the same five days. As if the rest of the semester doesn’t exist.
Then there’s The Math Professor™, the one who decided the “one-week break between math sections” was merely a suggestion. Instead, we got a week of illegal lecturing that was “optional”… but also mandatory to make up if you didn’t attend. Sir, what? No pause. No breath. Just…madness.
Office hours turned into therapy sessions. Group chats became digital séance circles:
“Does anyone have the answer key?”
“No, but I have trauma.”
There were whispers of students pulling all-nighters in the library basement. No one knows if they ever left.
But now, as the dust settles, we crawl out of our study caves blinking at the sunlight. The midterms are dead. We survived.
Yet deep down, a question remains…
We survived midterms—but at what cost?
(Probably our GPA. Definitely our sleep schedule. Maybe our soul).
