OLDER MEN | THE WEEKND

08

08

"ISABELLA?"

She's torn out of her thoughts by none other than Archival. He looks at her strangely — and then, she realizes that the whole class is staring at her, too.

She flushes furiously before shaking off the remnants of Sunday's little library encounter and fixing her hair.

"I'm sorry, sir. Could you please repeat...?" She trails off, her eyes trained on the stubborn wrinkle between the Geography professor's eyebrows — as though he's constantly worried about something. It's rather unnerving.
But then again, so is the one loose button close to his tan neck...

"I asked you whether you've handed in your work over Montserrat," he says sternly. The tone of his voice makes Bella want to cry. She hates being a disappointment. She hates herself.
And she hates being dramatic.

So, she leans over the desk, eyes trained on the wrinkle between Mr. Archival's eyebrows, and she makes her voice so sweet and delicate that the wrinkle between Mr. Archival's eyebrows disappears and he parts his lips ever so slightly.

"I am truly sorry, Sir," she purrs, quiet and yet— venomous as a snake—"I— I was so sick yesterday, I couldn't even get up from my bed—" every torn syllable is a short breath, making her whole frame shudder, and it forces him to—

"N-no worries, Isabella," he mutters, eyes on her lips. Her lips are baby pink today.

She gives him a thankful nod before seeping back into her chair and exhaling.

Men, she thinks. Because— however affected Mr. Archival is, he is as unreachable to her as the stars to a dead man six feet underground. He'll get fired if anything is ever to happen, she is sure of it. Of course, it will get ushered down, smitten under a rug— but her parents...

So, instead, Bella admires from afar. And she allows him to admire back.

And yet... when he spoke her name, she thought, for a split second— fine, for a few moments longer after that,
—of another man calling her by the same name.
  A man who she swore she'd never let call her kitten again.

  She rubs her shoulders absentmindedly. Her fingers are cold, and through the pearly silk of her shirt, she can feel little needles piercing her skin. Folds one leg over the other. Lets her eyes fall onto the screen of her phone, hidden behind the fat closed textbook on her desk.

She gasps so loudly that a few before her turn around to stare. Quickly, sullen cheeks flushed and eyes blazing, she masks it for a sudden coughing fit, her fingers trembling as she opens her Instagram.

@theweeknd started following you.

  "HEY— HEY, BELLA, WAIT!" The voice trailing behind Bella and Yvonne echoes through the gloomy school corridors. Bella slows her step, flicking her hair backwards and giving the boy a somber once-over.

   "What do you want."

  Her words aren't a question, — no, they're a statement, a nicer way of telling Luca Nicholson to—

    "I'm,—" the boy starts, his tone breathless, as if he's been running after her, "—hello, Bella."

  Bella raises an eyebrow.