“Ew no,” Thi grumbles, movement sounding through the speaker. “We’re not turning this back on me. Go get ready. Be early, be open to new experiences, and text me later.”
“What? Wait, what are you—” The phone cuts off, leaving me dazed and confused. I huff a laugh, changing and shoving the required sketchbook into my backpack. It’s going to be strange walking into a room of juniors, but I suppose that’s what I am now, too.
Armed in a pebble gray, one-shoulder sweater, dark leggings, and white Converse lace-ups, I leave with my wash bag and backpack in hand. The hallway smells faintly like stale takeout and someone’s cologne, and when I pass the door to my right, Iglare at it like I can burn a hole through the wood with just my eyes. Further down the hall, I twist the bathroom handle and almost slam into the door as the deadlock holds strong.
Backtracking, I lean against the opposite window to wait it out. Beyond the glass, campus is starting to wake, students spilling into the pathways that lead towards the cafeteria. I watch them meander, some in pairs or small groups, chatting mindlessly. Off to the left, the staff quarters are also showing signs of life, professors shouldering their bags and heading towards their designated lecture halls. My fingers drum against the windowsill, my hip popping to the side. How long does one need in the bathroom?
After another five or so minutes, I’m thoroughly bored. Crossing back to the bathroom door, I raise my fist and rasp my knuckles on it.
“You gonna be long in here?” I call out. Silence answers me at first, broken only by the faint shuffle of movement and a shadow passing underneath the door. Then, the shower switches on, pipes groaning in protest and water thundering. I sag against the wall, my bladder threatening to burst.
Slamming a hand against the door, I stride away with a renewed strength that lasts all of three seconds before music kicks in instead, bass thudding through the thin walls as if there’s a private party being hosted in the bathroom. It’s him. A groaned screech of irritation escapes me as I stomp down the stairs, in search of the nearest public bathroom. In the spirit of adapting to whatever the day decides to throw at me, we’re off to a fantastic start.
Art classes are held in a building of cracked stone steps and tall windows that stream in floods of daylight. The studios smell like paint, charcoal and turpentine, a mixture that wrinkles my nose, but I suppose I’ll get used to it. I’m going to have to. This is my life now, majoring in applied arts and art history instead of the path my mom wanted me to go down. After the ordeals I’ve endured, I’ll leave the psychology to her.
Stepping into my designated classroom, early as Thiago requested, I glance over the easels scattered around the room with blank canvases set up on them. Behind a battered, chipped desk, the professor peeks up through her square glasses and beckons me to enter. I recognize her from the information packet I was given.
“Hi, hello, Professor Walters,” I start, ready with an apology for not turning up yesterday, but she waves me off.
“Please, call me Liz. There’s no set seating plan, make yourself comfortable. We have a little time before class starts.” Nodding, I slip inside, taking a spot near the back where I can disappear and catch up without being noticed. Not that I doubt my make-up skills in the smudged mirror of a public restroom, but I could use a day going under the radar.
Juniors start to trickle in, mostly in singles, reusable cups or Stanley cups in hand. Most pay me no attention, which I’m thankful for. Pulling out my equipment, I just start to settle as the atmosphere in the room subtly shifts. No one else seems to notice, muttered conversations continuing whilst a pricklingrolls down my spine. Glancing toward the door, my stomach drops.
It’s him, again. Damp, white blond hair sticking out from beneath a dark green beanie, a bar through his right brow. Hidden beneath his hair, the hint of earbuds are pressed into his ears, a satchel slung over the shoulder of a black college sweater. My eyes travel south to the jeans that are more rips than denim and sneakers which are paint-stained. When I glance back up into the face of my asshole neighbor, his gray eyes are fixed on me with a fleeting look of disbelief. Then, it’s gone, and I’m effectively dismissed.
He takes an easel two rows ahead of me and drops onto the stool like he’s done this a hundred times before, his shoulders loose and posture relaxed. Someone leans in to murmur something to him and he responds without looking around, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows and exposing forearms littered with illustrative tattoos. I wouldn’t care, I don’t care, except I can smell him from here. The scent of rosewater bodywash filters towards me and my teeth grind.Mybodywash. The bastard.
He doesn’t spare me another glance, not even out of curiosity, and the irrational part of me bristles at being so thoroughly ignored. Ignored by the man whose door I was slamming my fist on last night, yelling for him to shut the damn music off. The more I think about it, the more my eye twitches. He denied me sleep, used my bodywash and now, he’s ignoring me? I tell myself to let it go, that I wanted to disappear and be unremarkable, yet my eyes keep drifting back to him anyway. It seems my attention has a traitorous mind of its own.
Before I can spiral too deeply, Liz stands at the front of the room and claps her hands once for everyone’s attention. “Shall we begin?” she asks rhetorically. “As we discussed yesterday, this semester is centered entirely around self-expression.”
My gut sinks, a groan becoming locked in my throat. Liz carries on explaining that this isn’t a technical course. Perfection and realism are beside the point. What matters is translating something internal into something visible. Our emotion, identity, conflicts, obsessions, silence, all of it is to be laid bare through whatever medium speaks the loudest.
Oblivious to my inner turmoil, she paces between the easels, her linen jacket already dusted with pigment, whilst I resist the urge to slam my head against the desk.
“I hope you’ve all prepared a few concepts as I requested yesterday.” Following this comment, a tornado of papers are pulled out of books and bags. Liz comes to stop in front of me, glancing across my empty desk and she smiles pitifully. “Maybe you should use this time for some reflection.” I mimic her smile, although when she turns away, I no longer hear her.
I grip the edge of my stool and breathe through the rising panic, painfully aware that I’ve stepped into a world where everyone else seems to know how to swim. Meanwhile, I’m floundering in open water, staring at a blank canvas and wondering how I’m supposed to express myself when I’ve just spent the last several months suppressing everything I don’t want to feel. Survival has been the only language I’ve known for so long.
Around me, students flip open sketchbooks filled with notes and thumbnails. I just sit there, acutely aware that I have none of that. I don’t know my medium of choice, or my style, or my influences. The white space in front of me feels less like a possibility and more like an impending punishment. Students begin to work, confident hands moving with purpose. And then there’shim.
He’s already started sketching, lines flowing without hesitation, completely absorbed in his process. I scowl at the back of his beanie-wearing head, not wanting to notice the wayhis arm shifts across his page, tattoos and veins catching the light. Forcing my gaze down, I open my sketchpad, trying to pretend the room isn’t starting to tilt.
Self-expression.Who even am I, aside from a bitter woman who can’t step away from a challenge? There’s nothing interesting about that. There’s simply…nothing about me that I can replicate without the use of a can of gasoline and a box of matches. Yet I try. I soul search, floating through the recesses of my mind that have remained untouched for a long while.
The noise around me dulls, Liz’s voice dissolving as my pulse climbs into my throat and takes up residence there. The page stretches wider and whiter, until it feels less like a void waiting for me to fall into. My vision blurs at the edges, a familiar warning sign that I’m losing the thread. I focus on counting my breaths, in and out, but the numbers slip away from me just like everything else. All that’s left is the phantom pain, the scent of blood in my own nose, the burn at my scalp, the memory of a face glaring down at me.
A jolt comes out of nowhere. My table rattles violently, pencils skittering off the surface and clattering to the floor as I’m yanked back into my body. My head snaps up, my heart slamming against my ribs, and I nearly recoil at how close someone is standing. It takes a second to reorient, to register the room thinning out around me, stools pushed in, tables cleared. Class has already ended.
My neighbor steps back and leans against the opposite worktable, arms crossed as he watches me without shame. His white hair is free of its beanie, mussed like he’s dragged his hands through it one too many times. There’s a faint blue light flashing in his ear, his headphone still firmly in place. Dark smudges stain his fingers, bleeding into his sweater and tattoos until it’s hard to tell where the mess ends and he begins. Hissteel-gray eyes are blank, fixed on me as if he’s looking straight through my skin.
“Productivity doesn’t seem to be a strong suit,” he murmurs, tipping his chin toward my untouched sketchpad.
I blink, still foggy, then snap the pad shut and shove it into my backpack with more force than necessary. “Maybe if someone didn’t blare their music all night, I’d be able to get enough sleep to focus.”
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but there’s clear satisfaction there. It vanishes just as quickly, the weight of his presence sharpening instead. I don’t know why my neck prickles, but like a moth to a flame, I shoulder my bag and circle the table toward him. He straightens at the same time, looming as his gaze drags over my face, searching, assessing, like he’s hunting for damage. I force the tremor down and paste on a mask of indifference.
“Maybe you should knock next time,” he says calmly. My jaw drops at the audacity. As if I hadn’t been pounding on his damn door half the night. Before I can snap back, he leans in just enough for the scent of rosewater body wash to wash over me. “Or invest in earplugs.”
