𝐅𝐀𝐖𝐍 • ᵉ ʲᵃᵉᵍᵉʳ

paper can't describe it

𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚓𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝟸𝟼𝚝𝚑

𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐒 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐎 𝟗:𝟑𝟎, the lecture hall slowly fills with the hum of chatter and laughter, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in my mind. I take a sip of my energy drink, the sharpness of the carbonation a welcome jolt against the dull ache of fatigue that lingers from the weekend. With my notebook open and my computer booting up, I try to push aside the memories of Eren and the tangled emotions that have clung to me like a second skin.

Mr. Smith strides in, his presence commanding the attention of the room. He's the kind of professor who inspires you to engage with the material, a sharp contrast to the chaos of my personal life. As he begins to outline the day's lesson on narrative structure, I find myself absently doodling in the margins of my notebook, the words blurring into a background noise as my mind wanders.

I glance around the lecture hall, watching as friends greet one another with enthusiasm, a feeling I've somehow been distanced from. There's a group of girls in the front row, their laughter infectious, and I can't help but feel a pang of envy. When was the last time I felt that kind of carefree joy? When was the last time I laughed like that without the weight of betrayal pressing down on me?

The lecture flows on, but I'm not fully present. I find myself stealing glances at the door, half-expecting to see someone I actually like walk in, but no. But each passing moment is a reminder that things are different now. That whatever connection we shared feels like a distant echo, swallowed by the shadows of hurt and confusion.

Mr. Smith's voice breaks through my thoughts as he assigns a group activity. I'm paired with two classmates I barely know, their names lost to me as I struggle to focus on the task at hand. The topic is supposed to ignite creativity, but all I can think about is how I've become an outsider in my own life, looking in as everyone else seems to navigate their connections effortlessly.

As we dive into the assignment, I force myself to engage, to let the rhythms of conversation pull me back into the moment. But even as we discuss our ideas, I can't shake the feeling that my mind is still anchored in the past, caught between the dreams I had about Eren and the reality of his absence. The bell will ring eventually, and I'll have to face the rest of the day—another reminder that I'm still here, still standing, but the weight of my heartache feels heavier than ever.

Mr. Smith's loud voice jolts me from my thoughts, and I quickly straighten in my seat, trying to shake off the remnants of distraction. He begins with roll call, his tone a mixture of authority and enthusiasm that fills the room. As he calls out names, I can't help but notice how effortlessly he engages the students, drawing them into the lesson with a warmth that feels comforting.

"Alright, everyone," he says once he finishes the roll, his eyes scanning the lecture hall. "Today, we're diving into the world of storytelling. We're going to explore how narrative structure shapes not only the stories we tell but also how they resonate with readers." His passion is palpable, and I feel a flicker of interest ignite within me, if only briefly.

He goes on to explain the day's activity, breaking us into small groups to brainstorm ideas for our upcoming narrative essays. "I want you to think about the stories that matter to you," he encourages, gesturing animatedly with his hands. "What experiences have shaped you? What moments have left a mark? Let's see how we can transform those into compelling narratives."

As he elaborates on the task, I scribble notes, my pen moving rapidly across the page, though my mind is still clouded with thoughts of Eren and the emotional turmoil that has been consuming me. The assignment feels important—an opportunity to reflect on my own story—but it's hard to focus when I can't help but feel that my own narrative is still unfolding in a chaotic, unpredictable way.