THE PROFESSOR

Sunlight speared through the shutters, slicing bars of gold across the tangled sheets. Warmth hit my face. Five more minutes. Please, just five more minutes.

My hand fumbled for my phone.

FUCK.

7:00am

How did I oversleep? Why didn’t I set two alarms?

Covers flew back. Bare feet slapped the cold floorboards. The air reeked of dust and last night’s half-eaten instant noodles. I raced toward the dresser, snagging my foot on a pile of clothes. A lone sneaker skidded under the bed, but I didn’t stop.

Calm down. Just get dressed.

The bathroom light stabbed my eyes. I gripped the sink, peering into the mirror. Hair a mess. Sleep lines etched deep. Eyeliner smudged like bruises under my eyes. Not good. Definitely not good.

Everyone’s going to notice. First impressions matter. They’ll think I’m a joke.

First day of college. Show weakness, and the wolves would rip you apart.

The kitchen stank of burnt eggs. Mum hovered at the stove, but I didn’t stop. I snatched an apple and bolted out the door.

Focus. Just get to the bus. Don’t look back.

Outside, the air was crisp with wet pavement and freshly cut grass. Sneakers thudded against concrete, keeping pace with my racing heart. My chest tightened. Lungs burned.

Come on. Come on. Move faster.

Images flashed in my head—teacher’s glare, principal’s frown, everyone staring. Not good enough. Never good enough.

Stop it. Stop imagining all the ways I’ll fail. Just make it to the bus.

I tore down the sidewalk, bag bouncing against my hip, eyes flicking at every passing car. The bus stop seemed miles away.

What if the bus leaves? What if I trip? What if everyone sees me running like a fool?

I rounded the corner—and froze.

The bus was already gone.

No. No. No. Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

I just stood there, trying to catch my breath, watching the taillights vanish like they were mocking me. Great. First day, already late. Perfect start. I quickened my pace, silently praying I wouldn’t be late for my first class.

God—what a perfect way to start the year.

When I reached the crossing lights, I squinted at something in the distance. What the hell is that?

It looked like a silhouette of a man, moving closer, creeping up on me like a character from a horror movie.

In any other situation, I’d be dialing the cops—but maybe…maybe he could help me.

Mum’s rules are playing in my head: “Don’t talk to strangers.” But we meet strangers every fucking day—and some of them end up becoming close friends.

I forced my legs to move toward him. Finally, I managed to get the words out, my voice barely steady. Please let him understand me…

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but do you know where Westmore College is?”

He stopped and stared, and I felt like he could see straight through me. Oh God, he’s looking right through me. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.

“Yeah, just follow me. I’m headed there as well.”

Yes… I’m saved. Finally. Someone who might actually help me.

As we walked, he asked a few questions.

“Is this your first year?”

“What are you studying?”

“Why didn’t you take the bus?”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think this was a fucking Q&A. God, why am I like this? All he wanted to know was if it was my first year, my chosen course, and the one question I’d been dreading—why I hadn’t caught the bus.

I answered: Yes, first year. History. And the last one? I lied. Didn’t want him thinking I’m some lazy prick. I prefer walking. Please, don’t ask why. Just let it go.

“Oh, cool. I’m studying music. Do you know which room you’re in for your class?“

Yes. Another lie. Of course I didn’t—how was I supposed to know that?

Up ahead, peeking through the trees, the Westmore sign came into view. Finally. Relief loosened my chest—I’d made it.

But something was off. No other students. No chatter. The place felt like a ghost town. Am I really that late?

I glanced at him, trying to act normal. Does he even realize he’s late too?

“Thanks,” I muttered, barely above a whisper.

He smiled politely. “No problem. I should get going—my class starts soon. See you around.”

And just like that, he was gone.

He gave a small smile. “No problem. I should get going—my class starts soon. See you around.”

Uh…some classes must start later. So I’m the only late person. Great. Just great.

I unlocked my phone to check the time, but my eyes caught on a notification instead—I’d gotten an email, from the college this was probably going to tell me what dorm I’m assigned in and my class time.

8:45a.m. 📶🔋 82% 

From: Registrar’s Office [email protected]

To: Olivia Dixson

Subject: Class Schedule & Dorm Assignment

Class Time: 8:00a.m.

Dear Olivia Dixson,

Welcome to the new semester at Westmore College! Below are your class and dorm details for Term 1:

Classroom: 10.4

Teacher: Miss Clark

Subject: History

Dorm Assignment: Willow Hall, Room 101

Morning class time: 8:00a.m.

End of morning class: 9:00a.m.

Please make sure to arrive on time for your first class and check in to your assigned dorm by 6 p.m.

Best regards,

Westmore College Registrar’s Office

Oh fuck, I’m really late. Great. My first year’s already a disaster.

I rushed into the corridor, breathless, asking for directions to Room 10.4. A man who looked like the janitor was mopping near the stairs—surely he’d know the place inside out.

“Sorry, sir, do you know where Room 10.4 is?”

“Just down the hallway to the left.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I took off running again.

I can feel eyes on me from every student in the corridor.

Great. They’re probably thinking, Why is this girl running like a maniac?

But I don’t care what they think right now. All I care about is the time—and getting to class.

My cheeks burn like they’re on fire, but I don’t slow down. My breath comes in sharp bursts as I scan the door numbers one by one.

“10.1… 10.2… 10.3…”

But 10.4 is nowhere in sight.

Then I spot a door right next to 10.3. The last number is smudged and barely readable—only the 10. is clear. But if we’re going by simple logic, this should be 10.4. If not, that would just be cruel.

I shove the door open, walking in with my head down like I’m praying I won’t get yelled at for being late. Suddenly, I trip over my own feet.

God dam it.

Every student in the room turns to look at me. The teacher stands and says, loud but calm,

“You’re very late, miss.”

I look up.

Not a female teacher, a very tall, fit, male who looks like he could be in his 30’s.

He could just be a replacement teacher for Miss Clark.

I scramble up off the floor “Sorry, sir, I—” he cuts me off

“I don’t want to hear any excuses, just go take a seat.”

I retreat to an empty seat in the last row, hopeing to disappear.

I lean toward the guy beside me and whisper, “What room number is this?”

He mouths: 10.3.

Before I can react, the teacher snaps,

“Hey! Ryan! Stop gossiping with your friends over there!”

“Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”

Then the bell rings. Students jump up, collect their things, and head for the door. I follow them, hoping to slip away unnoticed.

But then I hear someone say “you there“ ‘Im guessing it the teacher.

I slowly turn around, my legs wobbling like jelly.

“Come up here,” he says, like a command. “Why have I never seen you in this class before?”

I stand there, stuck in place.

“Well, you see, sir… like I was trying to tell you before… I’m not supposed to be in this classroom.“

He just stares at me, his expression impossible to read.

“The what room were you supposed to be in?”

“Room 10.4. Miss Clark’s class”

He studies me, unreadable.

“Room 10.4… Miss Clark,” I repeat, trying not to sound like a broken record.

He nods slowly—too slowly. “Across the hall,” he says. “Next time, check before you interrupt my lesson.”

Heat crawls up my neck. All I can do is whisper, “Yes, sir,” and back toward the door.

But before I leave, he adds, “I’ll remember your face. Off you go now.”

He turns to erase the stuff he’d written on the whiteboard.

His words follow me out the door, sticking to my skin like cold sweat. God this guy mean’s business.

I don’t know why, but something in his tone makes me feel like this won’t be the last time I see him.

Lucky me.

How could this day get any worse?