𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗦𝗘𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗧 𝗠𝗢𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦 || 𝗧𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗼𝗿 𝗦𝘄𝗶𝗳𝘁

Three .

The door to English Lit had just barely clicked shut behind me when someone sitting in the back caught my eye. He was hunched over, sketching something on a notebook, his hand moving quickly across the page, dark curls falling into his eyes.

I hesitated, not sure where to sit, but he looked up right then, meeting my gaze with a smile that seemed both inviting and curious. "Hey," he said, shifting his things just enough to make room.

"Hi," I replied, slipping into the seat beside him, oddly aware of his presence. His clothes were loose but stylish, and he had a quiet confidence that was intriguing.

"I'm Conan," he said, extending a hand.

"Allison," I replied, shaking it. His grip was gentle, almost careful, and I couldn't help but notice the ink smudged along his fingers. It seemed to suit him, somehow.

He tilted his head. "You new here?"

"Mhm." I said, smiling softly. He just nodded, not asking any further questions.

Conan glanced back down at his notebook, picking up his pencil and resuming his sketch with a sort of quiet focus. I tried not to stare, but curiosity got the best of me.

"What are you working on?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

He looked up and turned the notebook slightly in my direction. It was a half-finished sketch of the classroom itself—the desks, the bookshelves, even a few scattered notes on the floor. He'd captured it in such detail, even the faint slant of morning light coming through the window.

"It's just a habit," he said, shrugging. "Sometimes I draw whatever's around me."

"Just a habit? That's amazing," I replied, leaning closer. "I can barely draw stick figures."

He laughed softly, his eyes brightening with amusement. "Stick figures have their charm, though." He teased.

The professor entered just as Conan and I were settling in, and I was instantly brought back to that moment in the hallway. She strode to the front of the room, her gaze scanning over the class with the same sharpness I'd felt the first time she looked at me.

"Welcome to English Literature," she said, her voice steady but far from dull. She began talking about what we'd be doing in this class, but honestly, I zoned out during most of her speech. The sight of her eyes again gave me an unexplainable feeling of unease. 

My eyes darted to Conan, who was still focused on his notebook, his pencil moving in small, careful lines as Swift spoke. He looked completely relaxed, not fazed in the least by her serious tone, which was comforting somehow. I tried to follow his lead, keeping my expression neutral and calm as Swift continued, but I couldn't shake the strange mix of awe and anxiety that seemed to well up whenever I looked at her.

Swift shifted gears, handing out a syllabus that outlined the semester. She listed the readings with a hint of enthusiasm that seemed so subtle, almost like a challenge. When she got to one of the novels—something by Virginia Woolf—she paused and looked directly at me for a few seconds, as if testing my reaction. My heart skipped a beat. Did she remember me from the hallway? Or was I just imagining the weight of her gaze?

Beside me, Conan glanced over and noticed my expression. He leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper. "She's intense, yeah?"

I gave a slight nod, forcing a smile. "Just a bit."

Swift's voice rose as she continued speaking about things we'd be going over.

The rest of the hour passed in a blur. I found myself absorbed in my own thoughts throughout most of it, overthinking her sudden glances.