Being an only child, I am quick to criticize and slow to love. I go above and beyond for the people I care about, but I'd rather be alone and content with who I am than morph into someone else. I have the intellect, and I can analyze, which I will always preserve, whether isolated or in the midst of people.

Peering over the lecture hall, I observed the students buzzing with excitement to start the year. Economics II was mostly male-dominated students with the exception of the girl. Her table was neatly organised with her notepad and textbook, waiting patiently for the professor to make his appearance. Her beige coloured shoes made a tapping sound as she nervously kicked the leg of her table.

The professor strutted in, immediately eyeing me. I could see the young boy in him still desiring to return to his train set, despite his advanced age. It was as if his soul had taken a seat on one of those little platforms with the tiny trees, waiting for the steady sound of turning wheels and puffs of steam at the miniature station. Or perhaps that inner boy awaited the opportunity to shed the mask of sanguine resiliency and rediscover himself, fun and foolish. I could see the stress lines and how they intersected with the joy lines on the professor's face. His grey messy hair showed confidence in being who he is.

"Settle down," the professor loudly demanded in a hoarse voice. He picked up a piece of white chalk and wrote beautifully in cursive his name. Prof. T Higgins.

He started scanning through the students and landed his eyes on Sam. I could see her hands getting clammy, clenching the sides of her chair.

"What's your favourite number?" the professor asked, walking closer to her.

With a little bit of uncertainty, she mumbled the number five.

"And that will be your name for the rest of the year," he said looking rather serious with his eyebrows raised, staring deep into her soul.

She looked quite uncomfortable and made little eye contact with the professor, sinking into her chair.

"So, number five. Why is there a need for economising resources?" the professor asked with a smug look on his face.

This guy already pisses me off.

"I- I don't know," Sam replied nervously with a worried frown on her face.

Should I just answer the question in hopes of saving her embarrassment?

"Drewitt! You're up!" the professor called as he pointed at me.

Guess I don't get a number.

All of the sudden all eyes were drawn to me. I felt uneasy, to say the least. Having been in the spotlight for so long, you would think I'd be used to it.

"Uhm, I guess because resources are few in relation to demand, it is critical to maximise resource utilisation while minimising waste," I frowned, feeling less confident than usual.

"Correct, that's why I like my classes predominantly male," he grinned with that same smug smile as he looked over to Sam, covering her face in embarrassment.

The class soon ended with the students swarming out of the class. I watched how Sam grabbed her backpack and disappeared into the crowd of students while I sat there patiently waiting for the lecture hall to become silent.

I took my stride toward the professor to confront him about his teaching style. I didn't understand his annoyance with Sam and wanted to find out.

"Wolf Drewitt, I never thought a celebrity would enter such a pristine lecture, and be good at it," he smirked with a raised eyebrow, packing his books in a brown leather bag.

"I don't respect the way you singled out the girl. You don't know her intellect, yet," I said sternly as I towered above him.

"Look, in my years of teaching, I've never come across a woman that succeeds in my class," he scoffed as he slung his leather bag over his head. "They usually drop out after the first assessment."

"Maybe you should be a better lecturer then," I snapped as my blood began to boil.

I believe feminism has a role in the education system. All women should be able to feel like they have the same opportunities as males, and I don't like how this professor is bragging about the fact that female students don't succeed in his class.

"I have better things to do than bicker with you," he said as he glared at me and walk away.

Upon entering my room I stumbled into an unfinished art piece made out of clay. The sculpture's face was not one of happiness, nor of the kind of joy that makes people laugh, but of the kind of responsibility that comes with being entrusted with the protection of freedom and health. It was a manifestation of the seriousness that comes with great love, the reawakening of the spiritual guardian and the slumber of the internal joker.

"Don't touch it! It's not dry yet!" Ben yelled as he came running in with his eyes widened.

"I wasn't planning on touching it," I said, still staring at the art piece. "This is quite good," I complimented as I tilted my head, studying it deeper.

"It's not finished yet..." he said with a slight crinkle forming in the corner of his lip. "Sorry I placed it here, I didn't have enough time to do the last few touch-ups in class, and I need to do it while it's still wet," he went on as he closed the door behind him.

I kept quiet as I lay down on my squeaky bed. I closed my eyes as Ben continued working on his project and the earthy smell filled the room. I soon fell asleep and the white wolf appeared.

I was in a forest, thick and with murky waters running through the mud and twigs. Trees from the past have fallen to the forest floor in long-forgotten storms. The seasons have been hard, removing the bark and exterior layers yet enhancing the beauty of the trees. They have the look of driftwood, twisting in patterns that I associate with seashore waves; the moss is even kelp-like in colour. Through the mist, I saw the white wolf. The wolf with the same cold blue eyes as me. I have encountered this wolf before and with its death staring eyes, I ran. I turned my emotional anguish into the miles I was running. It was either getting in shape, or giving up, and I was bred with a warrior mentality.

"Wolf!" Ben yelled as he slapped my chest to wake up.

I jumped up and pushed him away, falling into his sculpture. His knees collapsed in front of his sculpture as tears rolled down his cheeks. Anger, pain, and sadness are all so linked that their labels may need to be changed to represent their genuine roots.

"I'm so sorry, man!" I said helplessly.

He kept quiet, picking up the fallen sculpture, keeping his anger to himself. I completely froze, I had no idea what I had to do in this situation.

"Let me help you," I nervously said as I scraped up a piece of clay, smudged into the floor.

"Leave it! You've done enough!" he snapped as he carried the sculpture outside.

I felt disappointed in myself. I had never seen someone so hurt and hopeless. I wanted to help him, but maybe it wasn't the right thing to do in this situation.