“You weren’t enrolled.”
“No.”
“But you came anyway.”
“I listened.”
He studies me like I’m a problem he’s already halfway solved, his expression a mix of curiosity and challenge. “Why now?”
I could lie. I could say it’s the course credit, the schedule, the degree plan. But I don’t. For some reason, I know he wouldn’t believe it.
“Because I wanted to know if you’d remember me.”
That lands. Not visibly, but I feel it; a shift in the air, a pause too long to be casual.
“You’re not the only one who listens,” he comments, his voice low, almost contemplative.
I don’t know what to do with that. So I say nothing, letting the silence stretch between us, thick with unspoken truths.
He pushes off the desk, circling me like a predator assessing its prey. He stops just behind my chair, close but not yet inappropriate, the air between us charged with unacknowledged tension.
“You’re taking both of my classes,” he states, a fact rather than a question.
“Yes.”
“That’s ambitious for a fine arts major,” he observes, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.
I nearly choke. He’s looked into me; my record, my ambitions, my very essence.
“I’m capable,” I reply, my voice steady, but the challenge lingers in the air.
“We’ll see,” he utters, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. A promise and a threat intertwined.
He moves again, circling, stopping directly in front of me. Close, but still not inappropriate.
“You’re not here to be taught,” he deduces, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. “You’re here to be seen.”
I hold his gaze, unflinching. “Is that a problem?”
He doesn’t answer, just watches me for one more beat, the silence stretching taut between us.
“Class dismissed,” he finally states, the finality in his voice sending a thrill down my spine.
I stand, my legs steady but my hands trembling slightly, betraying the storm of emotions swirling within me.
As I reach the door he speaks again; quiet, almost to himself. “Let’s see how long you last.”
I leave the room without looking back, but his words follow me like a pulse—Let’s see how long you last. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know how many lectures I sat through just to memorize the cadence of his voice, how many nights I spent rewriting the same sentence, hoping it sounded like something he’d underline. He thinks I’m ambitious, thinks I want recognition, but I want him. Not in the way girls want crushes, but in the way addicts crave drugs, in the way hunger desires sustenance. I want his attention, his approval, his undoing. And I’ll earn it. Not by being good, by being unforgettable.
Chapter Two
River
* * *
The studio smells like turpentine and wet canvas, a heady mix that sharpens my focus. I take my usual spot in the back corner near the sink, where the light is crisp and no one bothers me. It’s quiet here, quiet enough to think, quiet enough to want.
I open my sketchbook and start drawing without hesitation. A wrist. A shoulder. The curve of a mouth that never softens. It’s not a portrait, not exactly, but every line pulls me closer to him. I don’t need a reference. I’ve memorized him—the way he stands when he lectures, the way his voice drops when he’s about to say something that matters, the way he looked at me like I was a problem he hadn’t decided how to solve.
