My Professor's Secret

01|

o n e
375 days before wedding

The roads and sidewalks had finally begun to crowd as we approached the college campus I would be spending my upcoming years. My nerves had already started eating through the façade I swallowed before we left Dreycott, and the aftermath had begun crawling steadily up my throat.

From the car window, students looked like ants swarming in every direction. Overstuffed totes clung to their shoulders, storage bins balanced in their arms — probably packed with as much from home as they could manage to fit. Pillows. Framed pictures. Pieces of bedrooms that once felt permanent.

A small part of me envied them.

Most of those people probably loved who they were before today. They were just building on it.

I wasn't.

If I never saw my old self again, I think I'd survive just fine.

Starting here wasn't just about college. It was about reinvention. About becoming someone no one could see through. Someone less fragile. Someone who didn't feel like cracked glass pretending to be whole.

For a moment, I almost laughed at how cliché I sounded. Half of these people probably came here with the same dramatic internal monologue, ready to "start fresh" and finally feel like proper adults.

But Dreycott didn't allow quiet reinvention.

In Dreycott, Minnesota — small enough that you could drive across it in under ten minutes — perfection wasn't optional. Everyone knew everything about everyone, and if they didn't, they invented it.

A girl in my junior year got pregnant and people treated her like a walking mistake. Until she graduated with honors and got into Harvard. Then suddenly she was inspirational.

In a town like mine, redemption only counted if it impressed people.

My focus shifted to my brother in the passenger seat. Christian looked relaxed, like this was just another Tuesday. It was his second year here. No visible nerves. No panic. Just steady calm.

I missed him more than I ever admitted out loud. He was my best friend. The only person who had ever known every version of me and stuck around anyway.

"Hey, ugly," he called over his shoulder. "Dad wants to know your residence hall."

"Oh — um." I pulled out the paper I had memorized a hundred times the night before. "Cambridge Hall."

Dad nodded, scanning for signs as he maneuvered through the chaos of unloading families. Cars were being emptied like cans of packed sardines. Parents hovered. Students pretended not to be terrified.

The number of people in one place made something tight form in my chest. My high school graduation had maybe four hundred people in attendance. This felt like thousands.

When Dad finally pulled near Cambridge Hall, he turned to me with a smile.

"You excited? You look nervous."

I waved him off quickly.

"Nervous? No. Just taking in the scenery. I've got a lot of getting to know this place ahead of me. There's no time to be shy."

The boxes beside me suddenly felt heavier than they were. Not because of what was inside them — but because of what they represented.

This was it.

No more hiding behind who I used to be.

"I'm glad to hear that, Alex," Dad said. "Take one box with you for now. Christian and I will park and meet you back here to grab the rest. Twenty minutes tops."