𝐅𝐀𝐖𝐍•ᵉ ʲᵃᵉᵍᵉʳ

3

𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚜𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝟻𝚝𝚑

𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐒 𝐎𝐍 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 as I slump in my 9:30 am, English Composition class, my gaze lazily flicking between the whiteboard and the clock, which feels like it's moving backward. My professor's voice drones on in a monotonous murmur, filling the room with a wave of boredom that makes me want to scream.

Honestly, who gives a shit about analytical essays right now? I could be at home, binge-watching trashy reality TV, stuffing my face with popcorn while I pretend to care about other people's drama instead of this endless lecture about essays and how to write them. Ugh, I could even be taking a nap—now that sounds divine.

Instead, I'm stuck here, fighting off the urge to doodle smiley faces in my notes while wondering if I could sneak out for a coffee run. Seriously, someone shoot me!
How am I supposed to care about this shit when my mind keeps running to places like drinking iced coffee or hanging out with my friends?
As I sit here in this godforsaken biology lecture, I can't help but think that my life has hit an all-time low. I mean, really? How did I end up here? I could be out living my best life, sipping overpriced lattes, and pretending to be a functioning adult instead of listening to Mr. Smith recite the essay textbook contents .

I glance around the room, and it's a sea of lifeless faces, all nodding like we're a bunch of bobbleheads. Is anyone else plotting their escape, or is it just me? I swear, if I have to hear one more word about how essays "adapt" to whoever writes them, I might just start throwing paper balls at the guy in front of me. He looks like he could use a wake-up call. Seriously, why does nobody understand that this isn't an Edgar Allan Poe documentary? It's a Monday morning tragedy, and I am the unwilling star. The only thing I'm adapting to is the relentless urge to roll my eyes so hard they might just get stuck in the back of my head.
As I unscrew the cap of my apple-flavored lip gloss, I can practically feel my boredom oozing out of my pores. While Mr. Smirh continues his monotonous lecture on analyzing —yawn—I take a moment to admire my reflection in the small compact mirror I keep tucked in my bag. Seriously, this could be the highlight of my day. "Glossy lips in a sea of dullness," I mutter under my breath, applying a thick layer of that sweet, shiny potion.

I could be at a coffee shop right now, sipping a caramel macchiato while scrolling through videos of cats hitting eachother that actually make me laugh instead of this drivel about how understanding citation cycles. Who cares? I want to be out there living my best life, trying to figure out how to adult without dying of boredom. Maybe I could be at the mall, dragging Mikasa into some store I'll regret later, or plotting my next grand escape to the beach where the most I'd have to worry about is whether I remembered sunscreen.

Instead, I'm here, staring at a guy who looks like he's been awake since the dawn of time, and I'm pretty sure he's just as bored as I am. Honestly, if I hear one more fact about essays, I might just throw my lip gloss at the board and call it a day.

As my gaze drifts around the classroom, I spot Jean, and for a moment, I'm genuinely baffled at how I forgot he existed in this dull hellhole. Seriously, what's this guy's deal? With his perfectly tousled dark hair that looks like he just rolled out of bed—probably because he did—and that chiseled jawline that screams "I'm too pretty for this class," it's a wonder he doesn't have a line of admirers outside. He's lounging back like he owns the place, arms crossed over his fitted black T-shirt, which does nothing to hide those obnoxiously defined biceps.