in the ring / harry styles

23- The Price of Forgiveness

I make my way to Professor O'Neill's class, each step heavy with the memory of last night's party—the way Jake had followed me, the way he'd ignored every signal that I was done. The campus is alive with morning activity, students chatting in small clusters, their laughter drifting into the chilly air. But the buzz barely registers; my thoughts keep returning to Jake's persistence, his unsettling ability to twist everything into his favor.

As I approach the sprawling lecture hall, the large windows invite streams of sunlight that cast warm patterns across the walls and rows of desks. It's an expansive, bright space, with seats stretching high up to the ceiling, each row casting shadows onto the polished desks below. The air carries the familiar scent of old books and chalk dust, a grounding smell that wraps around me, helping to steady my thoughts. Students settle around me, murmuring in hushed voices, the sound a steady hum of normalcy that I find oddly comforting.

The sight of Jake, though, disrupts that comfort. He's sitting in the back row, casually leaning against the seat, and I notice a single red rose resting conspicuously on the desk in front of him. His gaze finds me instantly, and he flashes a confident, almost smug smile as he waves. I avert my eyes quickly, choosing a spot in the middle of the room, hoping to distance myself from him. But he doesn't take the hint. With that same unwarranted confidence, he picks up the rose, slides out of his seat, and heads toward me as if this were entirely ordinary.

Jake slips into the empty seat beside me, placing the rose on my desk with a small smirk. "Morning, Luce," he murmurs, attempting charm but unable to mask the edge in his voice. "I brought this... for last night. To say sorry. I know things got... out of hand."

"Jake," I say, keeping my voice low and measured, careful not to draw attention, "I told you—last night was a mistake. Just let it go."

He doesn't miss a beat. "Look, I get it. I messed up. I was an ass, I know that. But I love you. You don't think I hate myself? I do—I really do."

I sigh, the words already exhausted from my mind before they leave my mouth. "It's too late, Jake. We're done. No rose or apology is going to change that."

Just then, Professor O'Neill enters, his stride composed yet commanding. Today, he's dressed in a charcoal sweater over a white collared shirt, with dark slacks that add to his quiet authority. His outfit seems to shift his presence slightly, adding warmth to his usually composed demeanor. He glances over the room, his face a mixture of patience and quiet intensity, before settling at the podium and scanning his notes.

"Good morning, everyone," he begins, his voice deep and rich, pulling the room into an attentive silence. "Today, we're delving into themes of judgment, shame, and forgiveness as depicted in The Scarlet Letter."

The room falls silent as Professor O'Neill's voice fills the space, his calm confidence enveloping us. Jake, however, leans in again, his shoulder brushing against mine as he speaks softly, his tone laced with something between desperation and demand. "I can't just throw this away, Lucy."

I press my lips together, willing myself to stay focused on the lecture, on Professor O'Neill's steady cadence as he moves around the front of the room, addressing the class with calm authority. "Jake," I reply without turning, "you should. Because I deserve more than whatever it is you think you're offering now."

Professor O'Neill's gaze finds me. "Ms. Nickson," he calls, his voice clear, "How does Hawthorne use Hester's isolation to comment on the role of forgiveness?"

I clear my throat, grateful for the question. "I think Hawthorne's showing that forgiveness isn't just about what society thinks—it's about Hester learning to live with herself. The more they isolate her, the more she finds strength in her own sense of forgiveness."