She turns her face to her laptop, cheeks slightly pink, and begins to read.
The first sentences hit my face like a slap: “Feminism that doesn’t destroy societal norms is just etiquette. It’s courtesy in the face of violence. And it’s not enough.”
I sit up straighter, my breathing shallow.
Those are my words.
It’s happening again.
The next lines are a confirmation: “Believing we can change anything by moving within the already set confines laid before us is just a fairytale. True feminism is a call for radical change. It’s being willing to force the change yourself, even if you stand alone.”
I wrote those words sixteen, seventeen years ago. I can’t remember the timeline exactly, but I know my voice. My words. It was buried in a blog post I pulled offline after Ralston read it aloud in a seminar and called it “emotionally performative” and “childish.” She didn’t mention my name to criticize me any more than she would later while stealing from me. One small kindness, I guess.
I didn’t bring it up after it happened, and neither did she. We never talked about it, just carried on working together as if it had never happened.
That was when I was still blinded by her.
The phrasing—it’s nearly word for word. Unmistakable. I remember the shape of it, the way I wrote it late at night, my chest on fire, hands shaking as the words flew out of me.
No matter what Ralston said, I meant it. It was genuine. I believed it with everything I had.
I just believed in her more.
I don’t hear the rest. Not really. Just fragments. I can’t bring myself to focus, my mind in a rush to figure this out and forget it all at the same time. Everything blurs around the edges of my hearing and vision as a rush of heat fills my head. The ideas, the language, the very rhythm of her prose—it’s all mine. I feel as if I’ve left my body.
Maybe I’m back in the dorm. Maybe this is all a bad dream.
I glance around the room, wondering if anyone else suspects. If they might know those words aren’t hers. But how could they? Why would they?
They’re all nodding. Agreeing. Eating up her every word—myevery word. They take notes, writing things down in their notebooks and typing them into their laptops as if she’s giving them the secrets to life.
When it’s over, they applaud. I’m pretty sure I black out as a few others read their work. I’m going to vomit. Or pass out. Or die.
I can’t…breathe.
The class is a brutal hour and a half of me listening to my breathing inside my head, trying to ensure it continues. Trying to force my heart to keep beating.
When it ends, they thank her with another round of applause. She smiles and waves them away in true Ralston fashion, as if she’s modest but knows she owns this moment.
Thinks she deserves it.
I wait until the room clears, partially because I’m afraid I’ll fall if I try to stand. She’s packing up her things, still basking in the warmth of the moment when I approach her.
“Was that a joke?”
She spins around, confused. Recognition floods her face, and her smile drops. “Lila.” My name is careful on her tongue. I’m a vase she’s trying desperately not to break. “I didn’t see you here.”
She’s lying. I know she is. We both know why.
“Those were my words. My work. Where did you even find it?”
Her shoulders tighten. “What are you talking about? Find what?”
I can’t help myself—I laugh. It’s too loud in this quiet space. “You know. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You read my words in front of a room full of students as if they were yours. You started that story with my words.”
That reality never gets easier, no matter how many times it happens.
She blinks, and I watch the mask slip, just a little. “I—what? Professor Ralston and I were talking about this stuff last night. We couldn’t remember which one of us said what parts, but she said I could use any of it. She said I should include it in what I was presenting today. Those words—all of it—came from our conversation.”
