If Only (GxG)

Chapter 3 Why

A/N
🎶50 Ways to Leave Your Lover by Paul Simon🎶

『 °*• ❀ •*°』
Alison's POV

It's lunchtime the next day, and I am mentally preparing myself to spend the majority of it alone with Miss Bradley.

Really, it's just a series of steps. No thinking required—just follow the list.

Step one: Bid Ross and Amy goodbye. They wave back fondly. Check.

Step two: Lock eyes with Jessica from across the room and give her my best remember-who-gave-you-that-black-eye glare. She looks away. Check.

(I mean, I doubt I actually look as menacing as I imagine. In my head, I'm a shadowy figure of vengeance, radiating pure intimidation. In reality, I probably just look like I swallowed a lemon.)

Step three: Make my feet move. Keep my breathing even. Arrive at my English teacher's classroom door. Check.

Except now, despite my efforts to simplify my thought process, I'm annoyed again. Really annoyed.

Because let's be real—this whole thing is bullshit.

Jessica assaulted my friend. She went full psycho, screaming, slapping, probably foaming at the mouth—and all she got was a month of detention. Meanwhile, I get a week for defending Ross?

The main character in this situation isn't me. It's sexism.

Miss Bradley is wiping the whiteboard when I step into the classroom. The faint scent of her perfume lingers in the air—something floral and expensive, yet understated, just like her.

She turns at the sound of my bag dropping onto the desk. "Good afternoon, Alison. What would you prefer—organising books or marking papers?"

I glance at the thick stack of worksheets on her desk. "I'll mark the papers," I say, sinking into the chair.

She nods approvingly and slides the marking scheme towards me. "Excellent. They're for my maths class. Just follow the guidelines, and let me know if anything is unclear."

I hum in response and get to work. She's wearing a slim navy pantsuit today, tailored to perfection. When she shifts, the fabric strains ever so slightly across her arms, hinting at toned muscle beneath. I snap my eyes back to the papers before I get caught staring.

For the first fifteen minutes, we work in companionable silence, the only sounds being the scratch of pens and the rustle of paper. But then, I start to feel it—her gaze flicking towards me now and then. It's subtle, barely there, but I can sense it like a whisper against my skin.

I lock my jaw and let my hair fall forward, using it as a shield.

"You're upset," she states, as though it's an undeniable fact rather than an observation.

I inhale slowly through my nose. "I am."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"Not particularly."

Her tone turns coaxing, gentle but firm. "It might help to talk about it. Bottling things up rarely ends well."

I glance up, meeting her gaze. Her stormy grey eyes are patient but intent, quietly expectant. She has this unnerving ability to make people talk, as if silence simply isn't an option when she's waiting for an answer.

I exhale sharply, giving in. "It's better not to rock the boat. I'd rather serve my time and move on."

She doesn't look convinced. Her chair scrapes softly against the floor as she shifts closer, her knees nearly brushing mine under the desk. Then, without hesitation, she places a hand over mine.