in the ring / harry styles

16- The Lecture

The lecture hall holds a soft murmur, the familiar buzz of students settling into their seats echoing against the high ceilings and stark white walls. The harsh fluorescent lights make everything feel almost too vivid, but the familiar scent of old textbooks and faint coffee grounds grounds me, bringing a sense of routine. I settle into my seat near the middle row, opening my notebook and clicking my pen, ready to lose myself in Professor O'Neill's intricate breakdown of American literature. The weight of everything else fades briefly, and I feel a small measure of calm seep in.

But it doesn't last long.

As I scan the room, my eyes meet Jake's, and the sense of calm vanishes. He's lounging near the back with a couple of his frat brothers, his tall frame stretched out as he leans against the back of his chair, an easy confidence etched into his posture. His dark hair, always styled in that deliberate "messy" look, falls slightly over his forehead, and the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw adds to the careless confidence he wears like armor. Dressed in his worn jeans and a fitted t-shirt beneath his leather jacket, Jake's presence demands attention. Even from across the room, his gaze is unwavering, a look of casual interest that feels too familiar, like he's waiting for the moment he can catch me alone.

Before I can fully brace myself, he stands, his movements deliberate as he makes his way over, navigating around people as if the crowded space bends to his will. He slides into the empty seat beside me with the ease of someone who believes they belong wherever they choose to be, slinging his arm across the back of my chair like we're on a casual date.

"Lucy," he says, his voice low, the corners of his mouth twitching in that same smug way that used to make me feel special and now only grates. "I was wondering when you'd look my way."

I don't look up. Instead, I let out a small sigh, keeping my eyes forward. "Jake, I didn't look your way," I say flatly. "You just happened to be staring."

He lets out a soft chuckle, his fingers tapping against the edge of my desk with a casual rhythm that feels both entitled and invasive. "You're good at pretending, Lucy, but not that good. You miss me—I can tell."

A spark of annoyance flares within me, but I push it down, keeping my gaze trained on the front of the room where Professor O'Neill is setting up. "Please, Jake," I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper, "just leave me alone. I'm here for the lecture."

He doesn't budge, his tone softening, almost conspiratorial. "Sure, you're here for the lecture," he murmurs, leaning in a bit closer, his breath warm against my shoulder. "But come on, Lucy. You don't just forget about what we had. You're not built like that."

The nerve he has—the audacity to sit here and act like it's my fault for moving on. His tone holds that quiet arrogance that always suggested he thought he knew me better than I knew myself, and it makes my stomach twist. I try to focus on Professor O'Neill as he clears his throat, his voice commanding the room.

"Today, we're diving into The Scarlet Letter," he announces, his tone even yet filled with an unspoken challenge. "A text that not only explores judgment and shame but reflects the timeless struggle of identity—what society expects versus who we truly are."

His words hold my attention briefly, a welcome distraction, but Jake leans in again, his voice softer, laced with something almost pleading. "Look, Lucy, I know I messed up," he murmurs, his fingers tapping the back of my chair in a slow, calculated rhythm. "You didn't like the whole... Jenna thing, but it didn't mean anything. You know that. You know I've always wanted you."

A quiet fury coils within me as he brings up Jenna—reducing his betrayal to "nothing." His casual tone, his inability to see his own fault, only fuels my resolve, but before I can respond, Professor O'Neill's voice cuts through the room with gentle authority.

"I'll remind everyone that this is a three-hour lecture," he says pointedly, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. "Please refrain from side conversations."

Jake falls silent, but I can feel his impatience in the way he shifts, settling back like he's just biding his time. I manage to focus on my notes, scribbling down points about judgment and personal identity, but a small slip of paper slides onto my desk. Jake nudges it forward, his fingers brushing mine briefly as he urges me to open it. I glance down, reluctantly unfolding the note.

"Let's talk after class. You know you'll come around eventually."

I grit my teeth, shoving the note into my notebook, but Jake leans in again, dropping his voice. "If you didn't care, you wouldn't be so tense right now, Lucy. You're all cold and quiet, but I know you still feel it."

I stay silent, fighting to ignore him, but his words burrow into me, each one a subtle challenge. He just doesn't get it. He thinks I'm putting up a front, that I'll eventually give in, and it's maddening.

Professor O'Neill is discussing Hester Prynne's isolation and society's harsh judgment, his words weaving through the room and offering a lifeline. "Shame and judgment don't just shape how others see us," he says, his voice thoughtful, "but they shape how we see ourselves. Redemption lies in the choices we make afterward."

Jake doesn't care about any of it; he drops another note onto my desk, his handwriting hurried, almost messy.

"Come on, Luce. Don't let one little mistake ruin everything we had. We're better than this."

His words feel heavy, his self-assuredness like a weight pressing down on me. I press my lips together, shoving the note away, but Jake shifts closer, his voice dropping even lower, almost coaxing.

"Maybe I did mess up," he says, feigning a sigh. "But, Luce, you're making this a bigger deal than it has to be. We were perfect together. You're really going to let one mistake ruin that?"

My grip on my pen tightens, and I keep my focus forward, nodding absently as Professor O'Neill dives deeper into the lecture. I can feel Jake's eyes on me, waiting, his presence looming as he continues his quiet persistence, each word dripping with entitlement.

"Lucy," he whispers, his tone soft but insistent. "I know you. You're not just walking away. You're mad now, but we both know you'll come around."

His confidence grates on every nerve, but I bite my tongue, determined to stay quiet. Professor O'Neill's words cut through the tension, grounding me as he delves into the complexities of shame and forgiveness. But Jake inches closer, his fingers tapping out an unspoken rhythm against the edge of my desk.

"Lucy, please," he whispers, his voice filled with a subtle plea. "You don't have to be so harsh. You act like I'm the only one who messed up."

He laughs softly, almost like he finds my irritation endearing. "See? This is what I mean. Always so dramatic."

As I focus on Professor O'Neill's words, he describes the way society imposes judgment, the weight it puts on individuals to conform. Jake's voice, quieter now, carries a hint of something softer. "We were best friends, too, you know. It wasn't just... you know. We were real."

The quietness of his tone almost makes it sound like he's confessing something, but I know better. He wraps his mistakes in a way that makes it seem like we're equally at fault. He waits, but I refuse to engage. When I don't respond, he drops one final note onto my desk, his fingers brushing the edge as he nudges it closer.

"You're going to keep pushing me away until you realize no one else will get you like I do. Just stop this, Luce."

I take a deep breath, determined to ignore him as Professor O'Neill's voice fills the room. The lecture continues, the discussion moving through layers of judgment, personal identity, and resilience. By the time the lecture ends, I gather my things quickly, hoping to make a clean exit. But Jake blocks my path, his expression softer, his voice low.

"You don't have to pretend with me, Lucy," he murmurs. "I know you. I get it. You're mad. But we're worth fighting for, aren't we?"

I meet his gaze steadily, my voice calm but firm. "We're not, Jake. We're done."

Something hard flickers in his eyes—a flash of frustration that quickly melts into forced acceptance. "Fine," he says tightly, giving me a long look as if expecting me to change my mind. But I stand firm, my silence unwavering.

Without another word, he turns, his steps echoing down the hallway as he disappears around the corner.