Normal
I keep my head down as I cross campus my fingers tight around the strap of my bag every time someone laughs too loudly nearby.
It feels wrong, being here.Too normal.
The buildings stretch up in warm brick and glass students moving in clusters of easy conversation, perfume trailing behind them almost suffocating in a way. The voices were light careless in a way I don't understand anymore. No one here is listening for the sound of a door opening too fast. No one is measuring footsteps. No one is bracing for what comes after silence.
Good. I don't want them to. Nobody deserves that but maybe I do...
By the time I reach the classroom my breathing has almost evened out. Almost. I checked the mirror three times before leaving layered concealer carefully blended until the yellowing along my jaw faded into something unnoticeable. The shadow under my eye is still there if someone looks too closely.
So I won't give them a reason to.
I slip inside quietly.
The room is already half full. Chairs scrape. Papers shuffle. Someone nearby smells like sharp citrus, another like cheap cologne, and there's a heavy bitter thread of coffee hanging in the air.
And underneath it there something else I couldn't quite grasp.
I hesitate just inside the doorway a strange prickle running along the back of my neck. Foreign in a way. It's not a sound. Not a sight.Just a feeling.Like the air is heavier here.Like I've stepped into something I don't understand.
I shake it off and move to the back row taking the seat closest to the wall. My favorite kind where no one can sit behind me where I can see everything without being seen. I set my notebook down aligning it carefully with the edge of the desk focusing on that instead of the way my shoulders refuse to relax.
More students file in.
Noise builds.
Then
It stops.
Not completely. Not all at once. But enough that I feel it before I understand it. Conversations stumble. Laughter fades. The air tightens like the room itself is holding its breath.
My fingers go still and then I hear footsteps.
Slow. Even. Deliberate.
I don't look up.
I don't want to.
But suddenly I'm aware of everything the faint scent cutting through the room something cold and clean and impossibly old, like rain on stone or earth that hasn't seen sunlight in centuries. My pulse gets louder heavier like it's climbing into my throat.
"Take your seats." The voice is smooth. Controlled. Refined in a way that doesn't belong here.
My breath catches anyway. I hate that it does... that's strange.
I lift my head. Professor Lucien Morcant stands at the front of the room one hand resting lightly against the desk as his gaze moves over us. Not warm. Not curious. Assessing and Detached.
Like he's done this before. A hundred times. A thousand. Like none of us matter.
His eyes pass over me and then stop.
It's barely anything. A second. Less than that.
But something shifts. I feel it like static in the air almost like the air drops ten degrees.
His gaze sharpens locking onto me with a focus that makes my stomach twist. There's something in it I can't name something that feels too intense, too aware and lost all at the same time.
My fingers curl against the edge of the desk.
Then it's gone just like that.
He looks away turning as if nothing happened beginning the lecture in that same calm measured voice.
No one else reacts.No one else notices. But I can't stop the unease crawling up my spine settling deep in my chest.
Because for a moment when looked at me it didn't feel like a professor noticing a student.
It felt like something ancient...recognizing me.
But I have never seen him...
I try to focus on anything but him.
The scratch of pens. The low hum of the overhead lights. The way the girl two rows down keeps twirling her hair around her finger like she doesn't have a single real problem in the world.
Simplicity I wish I had. Anything but the way I can still feel that look. Like cold heat on my face.
Professor Morcant moves smoothly as he speaks writing something on the board in clean precise strokes. Dates. Names. Historical references that should feel dry but the way he says them makes them sound like memories instead of facts.
"As you'll find," he says his voice calm and controlled, "history is less about what is recorded... and more about what survives history gets to be told by the victors in any light they want."
Something about the way he says it makes a chill slip down my spine. His words obviously hold truth so I'm unsure where they affect me so much.
"And your first assignment," he continues turning back to face us, "will be a short analysis three to five pages on the reliability of historical narratives. You'll choose a figure whose story has been... altered over time."
His gaze drifts across the room again.
I look down at my notebook pretending to write.
"Someone," he adds lightly, "whose truth has been buried beneath something more... convenient."
My grip tightens on the pen his words, embarrassing having much more affect on me than I'd like.
The "Miss. Who's new in the back row." My head snaps up before I can stop it. Every eye turns toward me.
Great.
I stare at him my pulse picking up that same sharp awareness prickling under my skin.
"Yes?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
His expression doesn't change. If anything it settles into something more deliberate.
"You're new."
Not a question.
Duh...does he not recognize his students?
I tilt my head slightly. "Observation skills seem strong, Professor."
A few students shift like they're not sure if they're allowed to react.
His gaze sharpens just a fraction.
"Stand," he says.
There's no edge to it. No raised voice.But it doesn't feel like a request.
I don't move.
"Why?" I ask instead lifting a brow. "Don't you already know who your students are? Or do you usually just memorize faces you've actually seen and ignore the rest? Feels like you could make a pretty solid deduction from there about who I am."
A quiet ripple moves through the room.
There it is that flicker again.
Interest.
Not anger.
That somehow makes it worse.
"I could," he agrees smoothly. "Process of elimination is a useful skill."
He takes a step forward.The air shifts with him. I swear it does.
"But," he continues his voice lowering just slightly, "I asked you to stand so you can introduce yourself."
There's something in the way he says it this time.
Not louder.Just... heavier. Like the words settle into me instead of passing by.
My jaw tightens.
For a second, I consider refusing.
Digging my heels in. Pushing back.
But every instinct I have the ones that kept me safe this long start whispering the same thing.Don't escalate. Slowly, I stand and I can feel it immediately every pair of eyes on me, weighing, judging, and curious in that shallow harmless way people always are.
If they look close enough they'll see it. The faint discoloration near my collarbone. The slight stiffness in how I hold myself. I lift my chin anyway.
"Ophelia Hartwell," I say my voice even. "Transfer."
I don't offer more. I don't owe them more.Silence lingers for half a second too long.
Then—
"Miss Hartwell," Professor Morcant repeats like he's testing the shape of my name.Something in my chest tightens. His gaze holds mine steady and unblinking.
And for a moment the rest of the room disappears.
No students.No classroom.Just that look again.
Too aware.Too focused.Like he's seeing past everything I've tried to hide.
"Welcome to my class," he says.
It should sound normal.It doesn't.It sounds like a promise.Or a warning.
I'm not sure which one is worse.I try to sit back down.
"Not yet."
The words stop me halfway to my seat.
I freeze my fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the desk before I straighten again slower this time. Of course. Of course he's not done.
I turn my head just enough to look at him.
Professor Morcant hasn't moved much but his attention is entirely on me now focused in a way that makes the rest of the room feel... distant.
"Since you've joined us late in the year," he says smoothly, "why don't you tell the class a bit more about yourself?"
A few students perk up at that. Curious. Interested in the way people always are when someone new walks in.
I don't miss the way his wording lingers. A bit more.
My stomach tightens. There's not a chance I'm giving him or anyone in this room anything real.
I tilt my head slightly letting a hint of dry amusement slip into my expression. "What would you like to know, Professor? Favorite color? Childhood dreams? I can give you something inspiring if that's what you're after."
A couple of people snort quietly.
His expression doesn't change.
"If I wanted something meaningless," he replies, voice calm, "I would have been more specific."
That lands.Sharp. Precise.My fingers curl slightly at my sides.
"Name," he continues, "we have. Background. Academic interests. Reason for transferring."
Each word feels intentional and measured.
Like he's not asking he's narrowing in.I hold his gaze for a second longer than I should. Then I sigh softly like this is all just mildly inconvenient.
"Ophelia Hartwell," I repeat because if he wants to play this game, I can drag it out too. "Transferred here for a fresh start. Undeclared, for now."
I pause just long enough to make it clear I could stop there.
Then add a little sharper. "And I prefer to keep the rest to myself."
Silence settles again.Not awkward. Just tense.
His eyes don't leave mine.
And there it is again that shift. Subtle. Dangerous.
Interest.Not the casual kind. The kind that feels like being singled out by something that doesn't forget.
"You'll find," he says after a moment his voice quieter now, "that this class requires participation, Miss Hartwell."
There's something layered under that.Something that has nothing to do with coursework.
"I participate when it's worth it," I reply evenly.
A faint ripple moves through the room again. He takes another step closer.Not enough to be obvious but more than enough for me to notice.
"I have no doubt," he says, "that you will."
My pulse ticks up there's a strange weight to his words like they're settling somewhere deeper than they should.
Like he means more than he's saying.Finally he gives a slight incline of his head.
"You may sit."
Relief flickers through me quick and unwelcome.
I turn lowering myself carefully but the moment I bend pain slices through my side sharp enough to steal the air from my lungs. My ribs protest instantly a deep bruised ache that hasn't fully faded no matter how much I pretend it has.
I almost misstep almost.
My hand catches the edge of the desk my fingers tightening just a little too hard as I ease myself the rest of the way down slower than anyone else would. Slower than normal.
Normal.
I focus on that word like I can force my body to remember it.Sit like nothing's wrong.Move like nothing hurts.
Breathe.
I keep my head down reaching for my pen willing my pulse to steady.
No one noticed.
No one—
The thought dies before it finishes.Because I can feel it that same weight from before heavier now. Focused.
I don't want to look.I already know what I'll find.
Still my eyes lift just slightly.Professor Morcant is watching me.Not casually. Not the way a teacher scans a room.Precisely.
His gaze drops brief but exact to my side, to the way my arm is held just a fraction too close to my body, and to the stiffness I couldn't quite hide.Then back to my face.
There's a shift in him.Subtle.But unmistakable.
His expression doesn't change in any obvious way still composed and still controlled but something darker slips underneath it. Something sharper.
Something that feels like understanding.
My stomach twists.
No.
He couldn't.
There's no way.
"Page twelve," he says smoothly turning back to the board as if nothing happened. "We'll begin there."
The class moves papers flipping and pens lifting.
Normal.
Everything is normal.
Except it isn't.
Because I can still feel it.
That awareness.
Like I've been marked.
Like something about me has just been seen and can't be unseen.
I stare down at my notebook but the words blur slightly as a quiet unsettling thought settles in the back of my mind.
It wasn't just that he noticed.It was the way he looked at me after.Not surprised or confused but certain and somehow thats worse.
I'm out of my seat before the bell even finishes ringing.
I don't rush exactly but I don't linger either. By the time everyone else is still shoving notebooks into their bags I'm already in the hallway slipping past people before it gets crowded.
Lunchtime just means noise. Lines. People with somewhere to be and someone to sit with.
I don't have money for the cafeteria anyway.
So I go where I always went at any college.
The library's mostly empty when I walk in just the soft hum of the air and a couple of people scattered far enough apart that it feels like I'm alone. I head to the back my usual spot in a new place and drop into the chair.
I dig into my bag and pull out a small crinkled pack of chips. Vending machine lunch. Again.
It's fine.
I open my book finding my place quickly. The words come easy pulling me out of everything else out of the hallway out of the noise still echoing in my head.
For a little while it works.
The door opens but I don't look up. People come in all the time. It doesn't matter.
Footsteps follow.Closer than usual.Then they stop.
"Hey."
I freeze.Just for a second Then I look up.
It's him.
"You always leave that fast after class?" he asks like he's half joking but also actually waiting for an answer.
I shrug picking at the corner of the page. "It's quieter here."
He glances around like he's trying to see what I see. "Yeah," he says after a second. "I guess it is."
There's a pause. Not awkward, just... unfamiliar.
He nods toward the chair across from me. "Mind if I sit?"
I hesitate I don't know why.
"It's a library," I say finally. "You can sit wherever you want."
He smiles a little at that and pulls the chair out anyway.
I don't go back to reading. I tell myself I will but I don't.
He doesn't say anything right away. Just sits there.
I try to focus on the page but I can feel it the way he's not really doing anything except being... aware. Of me. It makes it hard to settle back into the story.
There's a shift quiet but noticeable. Then he leans a little closer.Not enough to be obvious. Not enough that anyone else would notice.But I do.
I glance up just briefly and catch him looking at me not my face exactly more like... searching. Like he's trying to figure something out.
Then he leans back again casual like nothing happened.
"...Did something happen earlier?"
The question hits too fast.
I blink at him. "What?"
"In class," he says quieter now. "You seemed—" He pauses like he's choosing the word carefully. "Off."
"I'm always like this."
He shakes his head a little. "No. Not like that."
I look back down at my book but I'm not reading anymore. My fingers tighten slightly against the page.
"I'm fine," I say.
Another pause.
Then, softer, "Are you sure?"Something in the way he says it makes my chest feel tight.
I shrug a little sharper than I mean to. "Why do you care?"
It comes out defensive. I expect him to back off.
He doesn't.
"I don't know," he admits. "I just—"
He stops and for a second neither of us moves.
And then more quietly like he's not sure he should even be saying it:
"You looked like you were hurt."
My stomach drops.I didn't tell anyone.
I'm careful. I know how to be careful.
I force a small scoff shaking my head. "You're imagining things."
But I shift in my seat anyway pulling my sleeve down a little further over my wrist.
His eyes flick down to the movement then back up to me.
He doesn't call me out. He doesn't push.Just watches me for a second longer than feels normal.
"...Okay," he says finally.
But he doesn't sound convinced.
And for some reason that feels worse.
His gaze drops to the crinkled bag in my hand.
"...That what you're eating?"
I look down at the chips then back up at him.
There it is. I feel it immediately that sharp, familiar sting. Like I've just been caught doing something I wasn't supposed to be seen doing.
"It's food," I say flat.
He tilts his head a little like that's not really an answer. "Yeah, I can see that. I meant—is that it?"
There's a beat.
Oh.
Oh.
I let out a small breath through my nose closing the book halfway but keeping my finger in the page. "What, you taking inventory now?"
"I'm just asking."
"It sounds like you're counting."
His mouth twitches not quite a smile. "Relax. I'm not your accountant."
"Good," I shoot back. "Because you'd be out of a job."
He huffs a quiet laugh at that but it fades quick. His eyes flick back to the bag then to my face again more serious now.
"That's not lunch," he says. Something in my chest tightens.
"It is if you're eating it at lunch," I snap.
He leans back slightly in his chair studying me like I'm a problem he hasn't decided how to solve yet.
"You always do this?" he asks.
"Do what?"
"Act like everything's fine when it's obviously not."
I let out a short humorless laugh. "You've known me for, what, five minutes in a library and suddenly you've got me all figured out?"
"Doesn't take five minutes."
"Wow," I mutter. "That's impressive. You should write a book."
"I don't need to," he says. "You're not subtle."
That lands harder than it should.
I look away my fingers tightening around the bag until it crinkles loudly in the quiet space.
"Maybe I just don't feel like explaining myself to someone who walked in here five minutes ago and decided to play detective."
Another pause.
I expect him to push again.He does but not the way I expect.
"Fine," he says. "Don't explain it."
I glance back at him a little thrown off.
He shrugs like it's nothing. "Just don't pretend that's enough food. It's annoying."
My eyebrows pull together. "Annoying?"
"Yeah," he says blunt as ever. "Because you're sitting there acting like you've got it handled when you clearly don't."
"That's not your problem."
"I didn't say it was."
"Then stop acting like it is."
He leans forward slightly lowering his voice just a bit.
"I'm acting like I have eyes," he says. "And right now they're telling me you're running on a bag of chips and pretending that's a personality trait."
I stare at him.That was unnecessarily rude.
Also heat creeps up the back of my neck equal parts irritation and something else I don't want to name.
"...You're kind of a jerk," I say.
"Yeah," he agrees easily.
Then after a second quieter.
"But I'm not wrong."
I hate that part.
Before I can say anything else he reaches into his pocket.
I frown watching him pull out a couple of bills like it's nothing like this isn't already weird enough.
He sets the money down on the table between us.
Just sets it there.
Casual.
Like it doesn't mean anything.
My stomach twists.
"What are you doing?" I ask sharper than before.
"For lunch," he says.
I stare at the money then back at him.
Something hot and defensive flares up so fast it almost feels automatic.
"I'm not a prostitute," I snap. "Or a charity case, or whatever you think this is."
A couple people across the room glance over. I don't care.
I grab the money and shove it back toward him across the table.
"I don't need you paying me to eat."
He doesn't even flinch, he barely even reacts just looks at the money for a second then back at me calm in a way that somehow makes it worse.
"I didn't say you were."
"Then don't—" I gesture at it my voice dropping but still tight. "Don't do that."
He exhales through his nose like I'm being difficult on purpose.
"Okay," he says. "Then don't take it."
That stops me I blink at him. He nudges the money right back to the center of the table not toward me this time. Just... there.
"You can either take it," he says his tone flat, "or don't. I don't care."
"That's not—"
"Either way," he cuts in standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder, "it's staying there."
I push back from the table a little. "You can't just—"
"I can," he says.Not loud. Not angry.Just simple.Like it's already decided.
He looks at me for a second not soft not exactly but not as sharp as before either.
"Buy actual food," he adds.
And then he turns and walks away just like that.
No waiting. No checking if I say anything else.
The door opens then closes behind him and the library settles back into quiet like nothing happened.
I sit there staring at the money.At the space where he was.My chips feel heavier in my hand now.
For a second I consider leaving it.Just getting up and walking away like I always do.
But I don't.
I hate that I don't.
Long enough that the library starts to feel normal again. Pages turning. Chairs shifting. Someone coughing quietly in the corner.
Like nothing just happened. The money's still sitting in front of me.He's not coming back.I know that.
He doesn't seem like the type to second-guess himself or circle back to check if I changed my mind. He said he was leaving it and he meant it.
And I'm not stupid. I stare at it a second longer my jaw tight like if I wait long enough it'll somehow stop meaning what it does.
It doesn't.
"...Whatever," I mutter under my breath.
My fingers move before I can overthink it. I grab the bills and shove them into my bag quickly like someone might see even though no one's paying attention.
It feels heavier than it should.I close my book not really in the mood anymore.The chips don't look as appealing now either.I stand up, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head out same quiet way I came in.
Not to the cafeteria.
Not yet.
The bathroom's empty when I push the door open.
Good.
I walk past the stalls at first then stop backtracking and slipping into the farthest one anyway. I lock it, even though I don't need to.
I just... do.
For a second I just stand there staring at the door.
Then I lift my shirt.
Slowly.
There it is.
Faded marks layered under newer ones discoloration along my ribs and my side. Some are yellowing at the edges, others darker, and more recent. Uneven overlapping in a way that makes it obvious this isn't a one-time thing.
My stomach tightens.
I press my lips together reaching up and pulling the fabric a little higher like seeing more will somehow make it make sense.
It doesn't.It just makes it harder to ignore.
I drop the shirt quickly like I touched something I wasn't supposed to.
My reflection in the metal of the stall latch looks warped. Not quite me.
"You're fine," I mutter quietly.The words sound flat.
Unconvincing.
After a second I unlock the stall step out and go to the sink. I turn the water on just to have something to focus on, m letting it run over my fingers longer than necessary.
My bag shifts slightly on my shoulder.
I can feel the money in it.
That makes something twist in my chest again sharp and complicated.
I shut the water off.
Stare at my reflection for a second longer.
Then look away.
The rest of the day passes in a dull careful blur. I keep my head down through the next two classes speak when I'm spoken to and slip out the second the final bell rings. No one stops me. No one looks too closely. That's how I like it.
By the time I push open the front door of the house the sky has already gone that flat washed-out gray that makes everything feel colder. My shoulders ache from carrying the bag all day. The faint smell of old cigarette smoke and stale beer hits me the second I step inside familiar enough that my stomach knots on instinct.
Dad's home.
I hear him in the living room the low mutter of the TV and the clink of a bottle. I don't call out. I never do anymore.
Instead I head straight for the kitchen moving quiet on the balls of my feet. If I can get something started on the stove before he notices me maybe the night won't be so bad. I pull out the half-empty box of pasta and a jar of sauce filling the pot with water. The faucet hisses. The burner clicks twice before the flame catches. Small, normal sounds. I cling to them.
I'm stirring the sauce when I hear his footsteps behind me uneven and heavy.
"What the hell you making?"
"Pasta," I answer without turning around. "There's enough for both of us."
He grunts. I hear him rummaging the familiar sound of my bag being dragged off the counter. My stomach drops.
"Homework?"
"Don't—"
Too late. The zipper rasps open. I turn just in time to see him pawing through it his thick fingers shoving aside notebooks and pens.
Then he freezes.
He pulls out the folded bills. The ones from the library. They look ridiculous in his hand too clean and too much.
Dad's eyes narrow. The air in the kitchen changes thickens like the oxygen gets sucked out.
"Where the fuck did you get this?"
My mouth goes dry. "It's nothing. Someone—"
"You little whore." The word lands like a slap before he even moves. "You been selling yourself? That it? Spreading your legs for pocket money?"
"Dad, no—it's not like that. A guy just—"
He crosses the kitchen faster than I expect. The wooden spoon clatters out of my hand. Sauce splatters across the counter hot flecks burning my wrist. I barely feel it.
His hand closes around my upper arm yanking me hard enough that my shoulder screams. The grip is iron-tight his fingers digging straight into the bruise that's already there from last week. Pain flares white-hot radiating down to my elbow.
"You think I'm stupid?" His breath is sour with beer hot against my face. "You think I don't know what girls like you do? Walking around here like you're better than this house, better than me, then coming back with cash in your bag?"
I try to pull away. Bad mistake.
He slams me back against the counter. The edge catches me right in the ribs the same spot that's still healing. The impact knocks the air out of me in a sharp wheezing gasp. Pain explodes outward bright and nauseating like something cracking inside. My vision sparks.
"I didn't—" I choke out but he's already shouting over me.
"Shut your fucking mouth!"
His other hand comes up. The slap is open-palmed, hard enough to snap my head to the side. My cheek burns instantly skin stinging like it's been scraped raw. The metallic taste of blood blooms where my teeth cut the inside of my lip. I taste it warm and coppery mixing with the lingering bitterness of cheap sauce still on the air.
I try to curl inward protect the worst spots but he's bigger. Always has been. He grabs a fistful of my hair at the nape and yanks my head back exposing my throat. The pull burns my scalp individual strands screaming as they threaten to rip free. My neck strains at an ugly angle.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you, you ungrateful bitch."
His voice is low now almost conversational which somehow makes it worse. I can hear the wet click of his throat as he swallows more anger. Feel the heat rolling off his body the faint tremor in his arm from how hard he's gripping me.
"You whore yourself out, you bring that filth money into my house?" Another shake of my head harder. Tears prick my eyes from the burn in my scalp. "I should throw you out on the street where you belong. Let them pay you properly."
He shoves me sideways. I stumble my hip slamming into the table. A plate crashes to the floor sharp ceramic shards scattering across the linoleum like broken teeth. One cuts the side of my ankle as I try to catch myself. A thin hot line of pain.
I end up on my knees among the pieces, breathing in short shallow bursts that make my bruised ribs scream with every inhale. The kitchen tilts. The smell of burning sauce starts to fill the room acrid and thick mixing with the blood in my mouth.
Dad stands over me his chest heaving. The money is still clutched in his fist like a dirty secret.
"Clean this shit up," he snarls. "And if I find out you're lying to me..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't have to.
He drops the crumpled bills onto the floor in front of me like trash then walks out. The TV volume goes up a second later loud enough to drown out everything else.
I stay on the floor a long time my fingers trembling as I pick up the sharp pieces of plate one by one. Each movement sends fresh pain through my side. My cheek throbs in time with my heartbeat. The sauce is definitely burning now bitter smoke curling toward the ceiling.
I don't cry.
Not yet.
I just keep picking up the pieces the same way I always do.
