Doesn't mean anything. Can't mean anything. Won't let it mean anything.
I keep writing.
Bane looks like his father. Same bone structure. Same easy confidence. He's probably used to getting what he wants. Probably never had to fight for anything in his life.
I don't know why I'm writing about them. I don't know why I care.
I just want to survive this.
I check my phone. The screen lights up. Bright. Harsh. 7:50.
Time to go.
Creative Writing II meets in a cramped classroom on the third floor. Room 304. The number is half-peeled off the door. Inside, the air smells like old coffee and dry-erase markers and the recycled air of a building that never quite gets enough ventilation.
There are twelve of us. Mostly older students—people in their thirties and forties who are back in school after life got in the way. A couple of kids my age who look just as lost as I feel.
Professor Montley is late, as always. I take my usual seat in the back corner—farthest from the door, closest to the window, where I can see everyone but no one looks at me—and pull out my diary again.
Class is a blur.
We're supposed to be workshopping a short story someone wrote about a woman leaving her husband. It's good. Well-written. Emotionally resonant.
I can't focus on it. The words blur together. I hear people talking—commenting, critiquing, praising—but it's all white noise. Static.
My mind keeps drifting back to the house. To Atlas standing in the hallway. To Zero's smirk at the wedding. To Bane's cold dismissal.
To the fact that I have to go back there tonight.
I open my diary to a fresh page and keep writing while the discussion continues around me.
Atlas thinks I'm being difficult. Maybe I am. Maybe I don't know how to be anything else.
I don't fit here. I don't fit anywhere.
"Max?" Professor Montley's voice pulls me back. "What did you think of the ending?"
I blink.
Everyone's looking at me.
I close my diary quickly, like I've been caught doing something wrong.
"I—uh—I thought it was strong," I manage. "The ambiguity works. Leaves the reader wanting more."
Professor Montley nods. "Good. Anyone else?"
The conversation moves on.
I slouch lower in my seat and don't open my diary again.
Class ends at ten. Professor Montley dismisses us with a reminder about next week's assignment. I don't catch what it is. I'll check the syllabus later.
I'm one of the first ones out, shouldering my bag and heading for the stairs before anyone can try to talk to me.
I sit in Margot's car for ten minutes before I start the engine.
The campus is quiet. he parking lot is half-empty now. Most of the classes have let out. Most people have gone home to their real lives. Their real families. Most of the buildings are dark. Windows black. Doors locked. Just a few lights still burning on the upper floors where janitors work or professors stay late grading or students pull all-nighters. A few students drift across the parking lot, heading to their own cars.
