He took off his glasses and gave me a look that said he wasn’t buying my claims. “You do realize that I teach psychology, right?”
My lips curled into a faint grin; he could probably see right through my lies. “I’m fine, Professor,” I insisted, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. “Thanks anyway.”
He didn’t push further; instead, he just watched me leave in silence, my shoes scuffing against the floor.
I took the stairs, distracted by my own thoughts throughout my descent. The scent of freshly printed paper and yesterday’s pizza wafted through the air, and the hallway belowwas a blur of color and noise. Students milled about in small groups, chattering and laughing under the bright corridor light.
I hadn’t taken two more steps past the staircase when I heard her voice from behind.
“There you are!” she said, yanking me into a casual headlock. “I thought you said you weren’t comin’ to class today,” she teased.
“Well, I changed my mind.”
“Lemme guess, that decision was largely influenced by fear of a certain Professor Wells.”
“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes. “He doesn’t scare me. I just don’t wanna be….”
“…responsible for another one of his legendary takedowns in class.” She echoed my statement without missing a single word.
I stopped in my tracks, staring at her with raised eyebrows.
“Don’t look so shocked. There’s a reason I’m your best friend.”
“There’s that,” I said, my eyes crinkling at the corners. “And there’s also the fact that you could be a mind reader.”
She let out a dramatic gasp, her hand flying to her chest. “Evaline Martha Harlow, are you calling me a witch?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged my shoulders.
“That is so unacceptable.” She faked a frown, playfully slamming her fist into my shoulder.
“Aww. That hurt.”
“No, it didn’t.” She hit me even harder, then began tickling me all over.
I threw my head back and laughed, telling her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen. For a moment, I forgot about my worries, an effect of Emika’s presence around me.
Emika Morgan was the closest thing I had to a sister, and she was the only person who knew how to lift my mood. She was part American and part Japanese. Emi was a beautiful twenty-one-year-old girl with gorgeous brown doe eyes and dark autumn hair that curled perfectly at the ends.
She stood at five-foot-two with a delicate face and a soft mouth that betrayed every emotion, no matter how hard she tried to mask it. Emi was idealistic, stubborn, playful, and deeply principled—traits that made her brilliant on paper but reckless in person.
She favored pencil skirts, button-ups, and flats, giving her a casual yet put-together look. However, her ink-stained fingers and bitten nails hinted at the stress beneath the composed exterior.
“Come on. Let’s go,” she said.
“Go where?”
“BrewHub, duh.” She grabbed my hand and practically dragged me along with her.
We crossed the street together, discussing random stuff like our favorite celebrity crushes, trending songs and movies, and so on. The tiny bells jingled when she pushed the door open, and we stepped into BrewHub, a café near campus.
The mouthwatering scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, blending with the aroma of toasted bagels and espresso.
Students sat at different tables and booths—some alone, others in groups. The atmosphere was alive with the soft hum of conversations and Taylor Swift’s new music playing in the background.
Emi and I began nodding along to “The Fate of Ophelia,” which suddenly lifted our spirits.
“All that time
