"I'd estimate around 3,478 times to four significant figures," I recite to Hannah after she asks how many times, on average, I sigh per day.

She smiles at my reply, shaking her head, "Oddly enough, I don't think that's an exaggeration. If it somehow becomes possible, one day, you're just going to run out of carbon dioxide to breathe out."

I shrug, open to the idea.

Although we initially bonded over our involvement with an unnameable person, Hannah and I have become fast friends. Despite this, I haven't told her about my minor (well, major) meltdown earlier in the week. I've grown more lighthearted about it now that some distance has been out between me and the event, but every time I walk into my room I get hit with a flash of panic.

Speak of the fucking devil.

I spot a head of blonde hair and screech to a halt, grabbing Hannah's wrist. Warnings screaming at me in my head, I quickly stumble out an excuse, "Y-you know, I've actually got to... uh, go grab something from my room. See you later, y-yeah?"

Not waiting for her response, I turn around and walk back to the elevator, holding my breath and trying to walk at an unsuspiscious pace.

Please don't turn around. Please don't turn around. Please don't turn around...

"Quorra! Wait, please!"

I tense up like a deer in the middle of a chase, my feet thudding against the ground as I skid to a stop inside the elevator and hurriedly press the button to close the doors. Avoiding the gaze of Grant as he gets closer, the doors finally decide that it's about time to shut.

Sealed inside the claustrophobic space, I oddly feel more safe than I did outside. My heart slows to a comfortable rate as the elevator slowly progresses through the floors.

I pray that it doesn't stop before mine, fingers crossed so tightly that they were turning white.

To be honest, I don't know why I'm hiding from him. I know I've been dramatic about this and that girls have been through much more than a kiss on their neck and their chest being brushed. This is stupid. I'm so stupid. Get over yourself, Quorra, I scold myself. I'm so fed up with everything that I do.

Nonetheless, I exhale the breath that I'm holding when the digital screen above the doors displays the letter H.

The doors slide open and a pair of blue eyes pierce through mine.

Freeze.

"Q-"

Ah shit, why are staircases a thing?!

I shove him with inhuman strength and bolt for room H2, heart thudding like a stampede of elephants as Grant easily catches up with long strides. Though I long for the safety of my dorm, I force myself to hurry past it, knowing how easily he would be able to snatch me up if I stopped to hit my fists against the door.

Unwanted memories plague my mind in endless torment, taunting and mocking me like school bullies. My eyes meet his, wide with fearful anticipation.

He stays a few steps back as I press myself into the wall behind me, my dorm room too far to make a dash. I've cornered myself and as he takes a tentative step forward, I flinch.

"Quo, I didn't mean to do that the other day. I swear to god, Quorra, I don't know what happened. I'm sorry, but I just think I'm falling for you hard and fast and you just don't see it. Do I have to spell it out for you?" he speaks gently, as if to a child.

As he continues, my palms grow clammy, "I like you, Quorra, and it hurts to see that you don't reflect those feelings. I've never liked anyone like I ha-"

A door behind us clicks open. I breathe out, praying that the instigator of the heavenly interruption would save my screwed ass.

"Quorra?"

The voice doesn't belong to Grant. I look over his shoulder, eyes catching the enchanting gaze of a certain English professor.

"Mr Lincoln?" he confirms, the name leaving his full lips icily as he turns to face us fully, arms crossed over his chest in an angrily calm manner.

Grant laughs, nonplussed by his intimidating presence, "What happened to 'Miss Neversea', huh?"

"You did," Professor Hartley bites back, eyes narrowed into slits.

Even I'm scared and he's defending me.

"Quorra, go inside," he instructs, tone firm and leaving no room for discussion.

I swallow anxiously and nod, looking down as I head towards the dorm, Grant's disbelieving gaze following my every step.

"I'll be in soon," Professor Hartley leans towards me to murmur in my ear as he opens the door.

A chill awakens my spine, evoking a completely different emotion out of me as I nod and step in, shutting the door behind me.

Instantly, I breathe out, the stiff atmosphere subsided.

How do I get myself into these situations?

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

As promised, Professor Hartley enters a few minutes later. He sits his suitcase on the desk and leans back against it, hand running through his hair tiredly.

I look down, not knowing where the guilt comes from.

"Quorra, you have to let me punish him," Professor Hartley states after a while, "He is relentless and disrespectful."

I contemplate it, but can't bring myself to agree.

My English professor walks closer to sit on his bed, eyes still fixed on me. He pulls off his glasses, rubbing his eyes with a sigh. I despise the tension that hangs above our heads like a cloud, willing myself to break it.

"You seem stressed," I comment as he shakes his head.

"I believe you are the one stressed here, Quorra. I am nothing but concerned that one of my students won't accept my help, even though she knows she needs it."

Loathing fills me at the reminder of our statuses. He's only doing this out of care for a student.

Well, why do you care?

I don't, I tell my conscience, annoyed at its interception.

"My sister was just like you," he suddenly says.

I immediately look up, intrigued. He seems to be opening up about himself more and more with every passing day. I like it - knowing that I'm the only one in this university who knows these little pieces of information about him.

"How? I'm sure I'm pretty fucked up," I lie down in my bed, laying an arm over my eyes.

"That's 10p."

"What?" I look over at him, eyebrow raised.

"You swore," he expands, "I'm setting up a new system. Every time you say 'shit' you owe me 5p and for 'fuck', 10p."

I have to bite my lip to stop myself reacting to how attractive he sounds when he swears.

"Well isn't it a bit immoral to make your student pay you? And besides, you just swore twice," I defend myself, part of me wanting to hear him swear again.

He frowns, "I don't think so. I'm setting you up for an easier life. You won't keep losing your jobs with that mouth of yours, so I'm indirectly saving you from future bankruptcy. Also, I just swore to demonstrate, and I never do so otherwise. I think I'm off the hook."

I shut up at that, too dazed by his sophistication to argue back, "Well what counts as a swear word?"

"Well, you run through a list and I'll tell you," he says.

I know he's just trying to distract me now, but I appreciate it nonetheless. A weight lifts off my shoulders as we talk.

I sit up.

"Bitch."

"Not really."

"Dick."

"Kind of."

"Pussy."

"Depends on the contex-"

"Cun-"

"Don't finish that word, Quorra."

I shrug, "Okay, I've got it."

A small smile enters his face, "Good."

We fall into a silence.

I'm caught in a daze as I remember the first few days of me being at this university. Awkward silences were as abundant as rats between me and Professor Hartley, but now when we settle into them, an odd sense of calm washes over me. It's as if those few moments of silence are the only seconds of peace I'll get in my hectic day.

My eyes zero in on the photo on his bedside table. I remember looking at it the other week; the memory is still crisp in my mind.

Come on, Quorra, ask.

"Uh, what's that photo?" I ask in an innocent tone, hoping I don't reflect the guilt I feel for my dishonesty in my eyes.

His gaze sweeps over to it as he picks it up, fingers brushing the glass covering lovingly. In this moment, he seems more human than ever, capable of such adoration and affection. But why?

"That's her," he murmurs, eyes dimmed.

I stand up and hesitantly sit next to him. The bed dips under our weight, the covers wrapping me in the intoxicating cologne of Professor Hartley. To distract myself from the dizzying smell, I peer over to look at where he points.

I find myself smiling at the reminder of how adorable she is in her frilly dress, eyes filled with the glee of youth.

"Who's the little boy?" I ask, feeling like I know the answer already.

He pauses to glance at the boy, whose eyes glint with light. I repress an 'awe' at the two children together, the love they hold for each other clear, even through the worn-down photo.

"Me," he answers.

I stop, looking up at him.

"Is your first name Slater?" I ask.

He glances at me, holding me captive in his chocolate gaze, "How do you know?"

I flush with colour, unsure how to approach an answer, "Uh, lucky guess? It just suits you."

"Why?"

Because it's a hot name, I want to say.

"I don't know," I mumble, feeling interrogated as he places the frame back down carefully on the table.

"You looked at the back," he concludes factually, though not angry.

At the lack of vexation in his voice, I admit to his predictions, "Yeah... I'm sorry - I'm just stuck in this room a lot and I can't help but snoop around your side of the room because it's a lot more interesting than what I have since, well, I already know what I have, and it's not a lot."

I jump a mile into the air when his hand lands on my knee. He retracts his touch, realising my uncomfortableness, "It was just a question. I don't blame you."

Desperate to avoid a thick silence, I blur the first thing that comes to mind, "What happened to her?" I ask, before my breath hitches in my throat in regret, "You don't have to answer that."

He seems uncomfortable, eyes clouding over for a moment.

"No, it's alright. We're stuck in this room together so we may as well know a little about each other. She, uh, committed suicide."

At that word, every cell in my body freezes.

Suicide? I fiddle with my fingers in my lap, unsure what to say. She looked so happy in that photo...

"Has it been long?" I ask quietly, feeling his pain as he rubs the back of his neck, as if exhausted.

"The tenth anniversary of Addilyn's death was quite recent," he fills me in as I dare to look at him.

The distraught coating his expression is blatant, startlingly different to his usual unreadable look. I try to not utter an apology for his loss, knowing that that would never comfort him.

"I'm sure she was as beautiful as her name," I say, meaning it.

"You are a lot like her, Quorra."

I have a feeling he didn't think about what he said. Despite this, a dusting of pink sprinkles over my cheeks.

He realised a second too late, "Oh, I don't mean that you're beautif- wait, well you aren't not beautiful or anything, I j-"

"It's okay," I laugh light-heartedly, amused by this rare, flustered side to him.

"What I meant," he rephrases, "is that you share the same views and thought processes. And after what I went through with her, I'd be able to help you if you need any guid-"

"Wait, do you think I'm going to kill myself?" I gape slightly at him, incredulous, "Come on, I'm not just going to kill myself because of a couple tough situations."

I pause as regret swallows me whole.

"Fuck, I didn't mean that," I cover my mouth with my hand, "Oh god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean that. I swear on my life - wait no, I don't. I'm sure she had good reason to... Ah, fuck, I screw everything up."

I lean my elbows against my knees, head falling into my hands remorsefully as I wait for a response.

"20p. It's fine. And I don't think you are suicidal, but I wouldn't want to live knowing that I didn't at least offer help to someone who really needed it," he says calmly.

I try to process his words but they run through one ear and straight out the other.

"Thanks?"

He nods at my questionable gratitude, "Anytime."

●（=｀～'=） ●

Fun fact: I finished writing and editing this five days ago. I forced myself to wait a week BWAHAHAHAHAH

Over and out,
Agent Spud 🥔