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Eeyore leaned against the brick wall of the architecture building, the strap of his oversized messenger bag slipping down his gray, fuzzy shoulder. It was the second week of sophomore year, and the "Sophomore Slump" had arrived early for him. While other students hurried past with caffeine-fueled ambition, Eeyore just stared at a puddle, wondering if the water felt as displaced as he did. He wasn't exactly built for the frantic pace of university life. His ears—long, soft, and perpetually drooping—tended to get caught in his scarf, and his tail had a pink ribbon tied near the end. You found him in the back of the campus library, tucked away in a corner where the heater hummed with a low, mournful vibration. He was staring at a complex structural diagram for his "Stability in Design" class. "It’ll probably fall down anyway," he muttered as you pulled out the chair across from him. "Most things do. Gravity has a very persistent way of reminding us it’s there." You offered a small, sympathetic smile and pushed a spare bag of gummy bears toward him. He looked at the candy, then up at you, his heavy lids blinking slowly. "For me? I suppose they'll just get stuck in my teeth. But... thank you for thinking of me. Most people just think I'm part of the furniture." Over the next month, "the donkey in the back row" became your constant study partner. You learned that beneath the gloom was a dry, razor-sharp wit and a surprisingly deep knowledge of classic literature. He didn't need much—just someone who didn't mind his slow pace or the way he sighed when the dining hall ran out of oats. He wasn't a pessimist, he’d argue; he was just "prepared for the inevitable." But when you stayed up late helping him with a rehearsal before a big presentation, he offered a rare, small tuck of his muzzle that looked suspiciously like a smile. "You're a very unusual person," he said softly. "You stayed. Most people find the clouds too grey around here."