ZIA
Guess what?
I changed my entire future just for one man.
That day I went to Sta Maria University to enroll myself in a Business Administration course, just like my mother had laid out for me.
But then I saw him, passing by me, walking towards the administration building. He was tall, with a strong, well-built frame that screamed that he was about to dominate my world. But more than that, his olive skin, sharp and symmetrical features, just so manly, and those broad shoulders felt like he could protect me anytime, anywhere.
From that moment on, I seemed lost in my mind. All I knew was that I needed to be in the same room as him.
So I followed him.
I needed to know about him.
After seeing him get inside the Fine Arts Faculty Lounge, I immediately knew the course I was going to enroll in. In an instant, I went to the Fine Arts Dean’s Office and asked for a prospectus. Hanging on the wall were photos of the faculty and a little something about them.
I was right; he was one of the fine arts faculty. The image of his handsome face was there. I moved close, gazed at it thoroughly, and read the information just below the photo.
Professor Zayn al-Rafic
Position: Senior Lecturer & Head of Studio Arts
Department: School of Fine Arts & Visual Culture
Nationality: Middle Eastern / Arabian
Date of Birth: 20th February, 1990
Academic & Professional Background
Education: Master of Fine Arts (MFA) – Royal Academy of Arts, London.
Bachelor of Visual Arts – International College of Art & Design, specialized training in classical drawing, oil painting, and mixed-media techniques
Professional Experience: Over 12 years of teaching and exhibiting internationally. Former visiting artist at galleries in Dubai, Paris, and Sydney. Recipient of the
National Emerging Artist Award at age 27
Joined this university 4 years ago; known for a rigorous, thoughtful approach to teaching
Areas of Expertise: Foundation drawing & human anatomy
Light, shadow, and composition
Narrative art and emotional expression in painting
Personal Statement: "Art isn’t just a visual exercise—it’s emotional muscle memory. Every mark on a canvas has a story, and every shadow holds a secret. My job isn’t to teach you how to copy reality. It’s to help you see beyond the surface, so your work actually feels alive.”
After reading it all, I can really think that he is definitely my ultimate dream guy. He is 36 but doesn’t even look like his 30s at all. I even thought he was just in his 20′s. The longer I read his profile and stared at his image, it made him more fascinating and attractive he became. Then, I made up my mind the same day. Business Administration? Well, it can wait. At that moment, all I needed was to be his student.
***
First day of class. I never remembered myself being this excited to go to school, and I never remembered being the one who had been asking my mom to hurry up. That was supposed to be her job, but today it’s different. I am about to see him.
I giggled and shook a bit as I walked inside the studio. The harsh but strangely organic scent of turpentine, linseed oil, and fresh canvas felt like my home now. This is what he might smell like, as well.
The walls were lined with finished canvases; some were half-finished, and there were shelves stacked with tubes of paint, charcoal, brushes, and rolls of paper. Across the room were rows of sturdy wooden easels arranged in a circle, with stools and drawing boards set out.
At the far back was a partially closed wooden door marked Storage/Supplies.
There were already other students, claiming their chairs, and most of them smiled at me the moment I got in. Some were also shy enough not to even look and just stared down. I simply nodded, knowing many good artists were actually introverts.
The door of the storage room swung open, and there he was. He strode across the room to the front, to the professor’s table, and my stomach started to get fluttery and unsteady. He was wearing a plain suit with a collared shirt tucked into formal soft trousers, his side chest stretching the shirt a bit. His hands were in his pockets, making him look so calm, yet so hot that it made me accidentally bite my lip.
“Good morning, everyone. Welcome to Foundation Drawing 1,” he said. His voice was deep and steady, and it was so soft, with a distinct Arabian accent, yet clear and measured. It wasn’t too loud, but it commanded attention instantly, especially my attention. “I am Zayn al-Rafic, instructor. For the next semester, this studio won’t just be a classroom. It is where you will learn to see, and not just look.”
The next words he said seemed to slip out of my radar; all I knew, I was just staring at his dark eyes, thick and dark eyebrows, and his neatly trimmed beard and mustache that added maturity and definition, which I am obsessed with.
“Take your seats, arrange your material, and let us begin.”
That was the last thing I heard, after getting lost in my own la-la land. I stood there, trying to arrange my materials. I really don’t know how or where to put the pencils; should they be near the brushes or the tube paints? My heart started to beat with worry, just like a student who didn’t really listen to her teacher.
Suddenly, a man’s shadow dimmed a bit on that small table beside me. I looked up to see who; my breath hitched, and the same captivating dark eyes were now staring back at me. In a split second, his composed expression shattered.
His eyes widened; I could feel his breath caught in his throat, his lips open a bit. I almost thought he was about to say something. He seemed about to, but froze just before he could. I couldn’t understand the way he looked at me; he looked like he had seen a ghost, and not because he was captivated by my beauty.
A shock and confusion, or something painful, suddenly flashed across his face just before he could hide it.
