Eternal Longing ✓

19. Unidealized Depictions

JAYA

When Professor Truman finally starts class, I force my mind to stop wandering to the asshole behind me and focus on the lecture.

Given the fact that this is technically our first lesson of the semester, I pull out my laptop and take notes that are thorough and efficient.

Truman's first lesson is interesting and engaging as he centers it around one main question: To you, what is an unidealized depiction of a subject?

Though last week was mostly syllabus week, out of the three classes that I'm taking this semester-which are Realism, The Pop Art Movement, and Creative Processes-I can already tell this one will be the most engaging thanks to Truman.

"Okay, young minds," the man bellows with a smile on his face, "I think that's enough of my rambling."

The class chuckles at his joke because, honestly, he has been talking for about an hour despite how interestingly he's delivered the subject.

Truman is one of those professors who are just old enough to garner the respect of his new adult students while also being young enough to utilize lingo and methods that are familiar and relevant.

"Now, you'll be doing some talking. I want you all to pair up with someone you're not sitting next to, someone who's not your friend, and discuss the question posed for this lesson."

Unlike high school, we don't all collectively groan at the prospect of having to partner up, but it's still evident that this is the last thing we want to be doing at the moment.

"C'mon, everyone." Truman claps his hands and waves them around, an indication for us to mingle. "Up and about."

Sharing a look with Mav, we both slowly stand up. He smirks and is just about to say something before he's being quickly pulled away by some tiny girl that came out of nowhere. I swear the little thing all but drags him away.

I hold in a laugh as I watch him rushing after her as she pulls him toward her seat a few rows behind us. How the hell she made it to him so quickly, I have no idea.

"You enjoyed the lecture," a familiar voice comments from my left.

Clenching my fists and trying not to punch him square in the face, I turn toward him with a raised brow. "And how would you know that?"

He stares at me before calmly taking the seat next to mine. "Your hands were practically flying around your laptop. You wanted to write down all of Truman's words."

Sighing in defeat, I sit back down and cross my arms. "You know, it's rude to stare, Finley."

Shrugging his hard shoulders, he leans back in the chair and keeps staring.

Just stares and stares, only a hint of amusement on his face and that something in his eyes. The something that looks a lot like longing laced with an intensity that irks me.

"You're doing it right now," I whisper then chastise myself for sounding affected. "Stop it."

"Why should I? There's nothing wrong with me staring at you."

I almost don't want to ask. "And why is that?"

"Because I get to stare at things that belong to me if I want to." He leans closer to me and whispers. "And want to know what, little artist? I fucking want to."

I bite the insides of my cheeks but refrain from arguing with him when I see Professor Truman from the corner of my eye slowly make his way to us as he listens in to various conversations around the room.