in the ring / harry styles

17- Campus Tradition

The hallway is bustling with students, the sounds of footsteps, laughter, and hurried conversations blending into a steady hum as I weave my way to class. The air feels thick, laced with the faint smell of coffee and the lingering scent of autumn from open windows. Students brush past each other, and somewhere nearby, a friend calls out to another, their voices echoing off the walls. Amid the crowd, my thoughts wander, pulled back to Jake's words and the way his confidence slipped into my mind like a reminder he thought I needed—a reminder that in his mind, our story wasn't finished. The weight of his gaze from earlier, steady and certain, clings to me as I try to shake off the memory.

When I slip into the classroom, Emilia is already seated in the middle row, her notebook open, her pen tapping in a steady rhythm as she gives me a warm grin. I settle beside her, taking out my own notes, hoping the familiar routine of class can help clear the fog in my mind. My thoughts feel tangled, yet the energy in the room is grounding, and I find comfort in the familiar smell of old books and chalk, with an undertone of something faintly floral that seems to follow Professor Robertson wherever she goes.

Emilia leans over, her voice a soft murmur. "So, the sorority's throwing their big pre-Halloween party tomorrow night," she whispers, excitement gleaming in her eyes as if she's sharing some fantastic secret.

I feel a smile tug at my lips, unable to resist the contagious enthusiasm. The Halloween traditions here are predictable but somehow thrilling, too, a mix of anticipation and nostalgia that everyone buys into every fall. The sorority girls go all out, turning their house into some over-the-top haunted wonderland with each room carefully decorated. By the time Halloween week rolls around, the rival frat houses scramble to outdo them, turning the whole affair into a kind of unspoken challenge, a back-and-forth one-upmanship that everyone watches from the sidelines.

"Are you actually coming this time?" Emilia nudges me, her grin widening as her eyes meet mine with a conspiratorial sparkle. "Because if I have to drag you out of the dorm myself, I will."

I let out a small laugh, flipping open my notebook and preparing myself for the lecture. "Fine, I'll go. No dragging required."

"Good." She gives a satisfied nod, her excitement palpable. "You deserve a break."

I smile, feeling her words settle over me, grounding me a little, though I can tell she senses something else in my expression. She's right, though—I've felt the tension building, stretched thin and wrapped up in everything except what I actually want. The idea of stepping out, getting lost in the music, costumes, and lights, even for just a night, feels like an escape I didn't realize I needed.

Professor Robertson clears her throat as she steps up to the front of the room, her red hair pulled back in a loose, wavy twist that gives her an air of both elegance and ease. She scans the room, her gaze settling into a warm, attentive presence as she begins speaking. Her voice is calm but carries a firm conviction, drawing the class into the intricate layers of modernist literature. With each theme she introduces—identity, disillusionment, resilience—it feels as if she's inviting us not just to listen but to dig deeper. Her passion is contagious, and I find myself leaning forward, trying to lose myself in the cadence of her words. But my focus slips as my phone vibrates, and I glance down to see a message from Harry.

Harry: Hey.

A small smile tugs at my lips, and I type back quickly, keeping my reply light. How's your day?

His response comes almost immediately. Harry: Slow. I'm still at training.

After a pause, another text follows. Harry: I want to see you tomorrow.

My fingers hover over the screen, my thoughts swirling as I consider his words before typing back. I'm actually going to the sorority party.

A pause, then the buzz of another message. Harry: Why?

I feel his irritation seeping through, a hint of frustration in the simplicity of his words. I hesitate, then reply, Everyone goes. It's as honest an answer as I can manage.

There's another pause, then: Harry: Let's do something else. Just us.

For a moment, guilt tightens in my chest. Part of me wants to say yes, to make him feel like he doesn't have to compete for my time. But something inside me doesn't want to give in, to become someone who drops everything so easily. We can see each other after, I type back, hoping it'll ease whatever unease he's feeling.

After a long moment, his reply comes through. Harry: Alright. Just don't get too caught up there.

I slip my phone away, feeling the lingering weight of his last message settle over me. Beside me, Emilia gives me a knowing look, her brow arching in curiosity as she catches the shift in my expression. "Harry not thrilled about the party?" she guesses, her voice laced with amusement.

I shrug, tucking my phone into my bag as I refocus on my notebook. "Something like that."

"Ah," she says, stretching the sound out with a knowing smile. "Not a fan of campus tradition, I take it."

I manage a small smile, but my thoughts keep drifting, pulled back to the conflicting weight of Jake's reappearance and Harry's possessiveness. The emotions tug at me like frayed strings I can't seem to tie up neatly, even as Professor Robertson's words fill the room. I try to refocus, watching the professor as she walks us through passages of Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath, her passion blending with her conviction as she dissects themes of autonomy and self-discovery. She's moving through her lecture with a natural ease, her movements steady, her hands gesturing gently with each point.

Despite my efforts, my notes start to feel scattered, half-formed thoughts scattered across the page. I catch a glimpse of Emilia glancing at me, sensing the tension but letting it slide, her focus drifting back to her own notes as Professor Robertson wraps up with a closing thought on the power of women's voices in literature.

As class ends, I close my notebook, grateful for the distraction Emilia provides as we pack up. Her chatter fills the silence, her energy light and easy as she nudges me, her eyes bright with anticipation.

"Tomorrow night is going to be insane," she says, her tone filled with excitement. "Costumes, lights, music—it's going to be the best pre-Halloween party they've thrown in a while."

I laugh, rolling my eyes at her enthusiasm. "I'll be there. Don't worry."

The late afternoon sunlight filters through the windows as we step out of the building, casting warm, golden hues over the campus grounds. Shadows stretch across the walkways, and a gentle breeze carries the earthy scent of fallen leaves. I feel my phone buzz again and pull it from my bag, another message from Harry.

Harry: Just remember, after the party. I'll be waiting.

I tuck my phone back into my bag, a faint sense of excitement and tension coiling together. The thought of the night ahead and everything it could bring wraps around me, feeling both thrilling and inevitable. As Emilia's laughter fills the space around us, I let myself sink into the anticipation of what tomorrow might hold, ready to escape, if only for a night.