It's surprising just how much your view of yourself can change when a person tells you their opinion of you. This opinion is easy to ignore until many people tell you it - then, it just becomes a fact.

Being told I'm a disappointment by my parents is one thing, but having that repeated by professor - of all people - is a slap in the face.

The roaring fire that once burned inside of me, licking the edges of every insult and prepared with a comeback to every sentence, has withered down into a glowing ember.

I drop my pen onto the desk and push back against the edge of it, leaning my head back against the top of my chair. My hands drag down my face as I sigh tiredly. The words in front of me are no longer making any sense and may as well be written in French.

The dim light from the lamp flickers with exhaustion and as I touch the lampshade to resteady it, I quickly retract my hand with a wince.

The bulb is scalding hot.

How long have I been working?

My weary gaze finds the window, which is slightly open, filtering in a soothing breeze. I sweep my eyes over to Slater, who is already looking at me intensely.

Ignoring your roommate is as difficult as it sounds, but I've managed it for the whole of today.

"I've watched you struggle for the last four hours. Why don't you ask for help?" Slater asks, his observations a degree away from being creepy.

I swiftly turn away from him, not allowing myself to get swept up in his smooth, low tone of voice. The clock reads 2:07am.

It was ten the last time I checked.

"No," I snap back immediately, "I don't want your help."

I lean my elbows against the desk, leaning my forehead into my hands to reread the text in front of me.

Slater soon walks up behind me, reaching a hand over to glance at the sheet of paper that has been sitting before me, untouched.

I grit my teeth and build a taller wall of resistance as his intoxicating scent wraps around me, closing my eyes as my heart thuds in my chest.

"I said I don't want your help," I repeat, but the strength in my tone has disappeared.

I don't dare to look up at his eyes as he replies, "Sometimes we need things we are too stubborn to ask for, Quorra."

As my name leaves his lips, I almost forget why I'm even mad at him. I shake my head, sitting stiffer and crossing my arms over my chest.

It seems to be years before another word is exchanged between us.

"I didn't mean to cause any trouble with your family," Slater says, voice much lower in the quiet of the room.

Sometimes stabs me in the chest as I bite my lip hard to hold back a response. He doesn't mean that. He saw you suffer in their presence. He knows and he did it anyway.

"Quorra, I'm sorry. But don't do this to yourself."

Part of me melts inside, but I keep the defiance plastered across my features.

"Too late," I bite out.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

I blink away my drowsiness slowly as I return to reality. Uncomfortable, I sit up and rub my eyes, surprise threading through my tiredness as I realise that I've fallen asleep on the desk.

Eyes still half-closed with the remnants of a bad dream, I stand up, feeling the ache of protest in my weak muscles.

How long have I been sitting here?

The clock reads 10:00am, the numbers flashing in red as I run a hand through my hair and reach for my timetable with the other.

This week, I have very few lectures, one of which is in an hour.

Slater is nowhere to be seen. Why didn't he wake me up?

I groan as I spot the work from last night, still sitting at the desk, yet to be defiled with ink.

A certain, familiar heaviness weighs down my chest, as if a one tonne weight has been tied to my heart and is keeping me perpetually depressed.

My stomach feels empty but no hunger claws away at me, so I decide to skip breakfast.

And then I skip lunch too.

And dinner.

I almost collapse into my bed, bag sliding off my shoulder as I enter my dorm at the end of the day. Even though I only had one lecture, I decided to stay for longer and get more work done. My mind swirls with untidy handwriting and letters, and the relentless blinding lights in the lecture room didn't help either.

Appreciative of the dim lighting of my dorm, I fall into my bed like a rag doll, too weak to move.

I feel completely void yet bursting at the seams with emotion at the same time. My head spins as I close my eyes to will away this dizzying feeling that has been persistent for the whole day.

Pain stabs me in the temples as I groan and regret skipping meals, my body begging for fuel as I take note of my lack of energy.

Why should I eat if I'm not hungry though?

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

The next week smoothly passes, each day a repetition of the last. It's as if someone presses the rewind and fast forward buttons on the remote control of my life.

I wake up at eight and work for two hours.

I attend lectures, if I have any (if not, I stay back in my dorm and make notes for already-covered material).

I prod at meals every four hours.

I work for the rest of the day and well into the next.

I blink and find myself slumped over my desk in the morning.

Repeat.

Hannah worries about me, I can tell. She asks me if I'm okay several times in every English lecture. She tells me I act different. I do feel different, but a good different. I understand the class material and the sweet taste of revenge lingers on my tongue, satisfying my hunger far better than any food could.

Slater and I engage in one-sided conversations and he grows ever more anxious at my state. I don't know why. I think I'm fine.

It's a mundane lifestyle, but its working, and gaining a good qualification for myself is far more important than my health at this point.

I place down my pen and stop the timer on my phone. Glancing down at my complete paper, I feely my lips lift up slightly at the corners.

With my regime of five practice papers a day, I've managed to improve my timing and can complete papers in 70% of the given time. I rub my eyes wearily and look over at my bed, contemplating an afternoon nap.

A heavy weight threatens to pull my eyelids fully closed, and I find myself almost succumbing to sleep with every blink, but I just slap my wrists and force myself to stay awake.

The sound of a knock on my dorm room door sounds like thunder next to the slow, barely-there ba dum of my heart. I only register what a knock really means when a voice penetrates the silence of the room.

"Quo?"

My back aches as I straighten my body and stand up. A sore feeling clings to my bones like an incurable disease as I head for the door.

I must be walking ten times slower than I think because after I blink, Slater is already opening the door.

Oh.

When was he in here?

I hear the murmuring of two voices, but at the same time, I don't. Rubbing my eyes harder, I walk closer to the door.

Just as I'm a metre away, Slater closes the door with a click.

He turns around, the irritation on his features dissolving as he spots me.

"Who was it?" I ask, crossing my arms and brushing my thumb across my upper arm absentmindedly.

"No-one who matters, Quorra," he answers, walking past me towards his bed.

I don't move in time, my reaction time worse than that of a drunk driver. Slater bumps into my shoulder and nearly knocks me over.

My legs give out but he reaches out to steady me in time. I blink tiredly, unperplexed as I resist leaning into his warmth.

"Quorra, are you alright?" he asks cautiously as I shrug off his hand that brushes my shoulder, eliciting a tickling sensation.

"You tell me," I answer, pointing at my desk, which is littered with past papers and revision.

The pride in my worn voice is clear as he meets my gaze, eyes clouded over to conceal his emotion as usual. He opens his mouth to say something, but for once, is left speechless.

He retires to his bed without another word, submerging the room into a heavy silence.

"Was it Hannah?" I ask, powering through the unusual throbbing sensation in my head.

When he doesn't respond, I turn around and call, "Slater?"

His gaze flits up to mine as his name enters the room, "No," he says sharply.

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't, and instead turns around to switch his shirt for another. In my state, I don't even stop to run my eyes along the planes of his body, too wrapped up in my own question.

Finally, he spits out a name that almost makes me physically recoil, "It was Grant."

My blood runs cold and halts in my veins as I sit down on my bed, sinking into the comforting duvet with a mumbled 'oh'.

"I told him I'd finish him if he ever came back, don't worry."

He may as well have proposed to me with the shock that instantly fills my core. Today is such a strange day.

"Thanks," I murmur, the hot, pulsing feeling returning to my temples as I decide to lie down and take a nap, just for an hour.

Slater says something else, but sleep engulfs me too quickly for me to head it.

I disconnect.

◈ѕlaтer нarтley◈

"Get out," I enunciate, closing the door more as I feel Quorra approach from behind me.

Grant's falsely innocent expression morphs into one of surprise, "Excuse me?" he asks, trying to see past me.

"This is my dorm, I am a professor at this university, and I am telling you to leave. Leave," I state emotionlessly, unamused by the suspicious glint in his eye.

He has the nerve to laugh.

I stare blankly at him.

"I want to see her. This is Quorra's dorm just as much as it is yours, and I have every right to check up on my friends."

My mind immediately regurgitates an automatic response, "Friends care about each other."

"Which is why I'm here," he tries to justify himself, seemingly smug about his quick retort.

I hold back a scoff and maintain a layer of professionalism as I cross my arms intimidatingly, "Your actions in the past oppose your words. Please leave."

He doesn't reply and just stands his ground, mirroring my stance and looking off to the side, pursing his lips and clicking his tongue as if this is a bother to him.

I decide to remind him of something, "Who has the power in this situation?"

As he doesn't bite out an instant response, I take advantage of my upper hand, "I thought so. One of us can end the other, and they will not be able to do anything. Leave now and do not return. Quorra will see you when she sees you."

Which is never, if I have anything to do with it, I don't add.

"Fine," he snaps in irritation, growing red in anger and helplessness, "But hear me when-"

I slam the door shut before he finishes his sentence, the rudeness of the action an opposite of my usual, composed attitude.

Quorra's ghostly pale complexion and dull eyes are enough to shrink down my anger to nothing.

What's happening to her?

●（=｀～'=） ●

One word: tests.

I am under extreme stress right now, so I really apologise for this two-week-late upload. I have exam week coming up in the next month or so, so I really need to be revising.

Saying that, no-one forced me to write this, it was all me. I hope I don't fail my tests...

Thank you to everyone who motivated me to update and left sweet messages in the comments or in my inbox :)

Over and out,
Agent Spud 🥔