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Song: Hearing Damage by Thom Yorke

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I kept on clicking my pen, again and again as Professor Gabris took us through our next Art History assignment.

I know I'd planned on taking more interest on his bland voice, but after what had happened the night before, I simply couldn't.

Instead, I took more interest in what was happening in between the building I was in—Architecture School—and the McCormick Hall. At the center of a large patch of field which separated the two buildings, there ran a fine, concrete walkway.

And on it—as well as any other visible building or field or person—the heavy rain poured mercilessly, splashing hard in fat thumps on its surface. Obviously, in this penetrating rain, walking on the grass would be reputational suicide, so instead, people hobbled up together on the walkway, and protected themselves from the rain's wrath with umbrellas that seemed to be getting pulled away by the wind.

One girl that was already struggling to walk up the slick concrete path in stilettos-—which I'm certain weren't allowed—while continously shoving against other passersby who seemed just as agitated as her, shrieked when the wind yanked her umbrella away. She watched in disdain as it flew away, swaying around like it didn't know which direction to take.

It dawned on me that this umbrella was like me in a sense. A big part of me wanted to forget that William ever existed, while a smaller, stupider part of me was curious about what his excuse would have been; why he'd tried to stop me in front of his girlfriend.

"Miss. Baker," Professor Gabris said sternly and I drew my attention back to him. "Would you please stop that?" He instructed irritatedly, gesturing to the black pen in my hand. Everyone else in the lecture hall turned to me expectantly.

I muttered an incoherent 'sorry' under my breath and forced myself to pay attention to his bland voice as he explained the assignment further but I couldn't. I already had all the details written down anyway and I knew all my work, which sounded crazy to many coming from a college freshman, but I was so passionate about architecture that in my freshman year of high school-after I'd recovered from my ballet downfall-I'd started spending more time in my dad's office; looking at his work.

I didn't realize it at the time, but all those hours I'd been spending looking at my dad's work and assisting him, had been very educational. And they'd helped me get over ballet—completely.

I let out an exasperated sigh and looked around the large hall, scrutinizing everybody. The air got caught in my throat when my eyes met with a pair of familiar pale blue eyes. I instantly looked away, cursing at the contact. And how memories of the previous night flooded in. Uninvited.

I stared straight ahead at Professor Gabris, his words bouncing anywhere in the room but into my ears. I hated that this was happening. I'd planned on taking extra notes today, paying extra attention.

But I couldn't do that, not when William was staring freaking holes into my head! He had no right to stare at me the way he was. He wasn't even subtle about it. The worst part about it is that I was getting affected by his eyeing.

The events of the previous night still lingered in my mind and whenever I tried to grasp my head around something else, they'd pull me back in and plant skinny cold fingers with long sharp nails around the slippery surface of my heart, constantly scratching at the pericardium and simultaneously cooking up a dangerous storm.

I could feel my heart becoming more vulnerable to friction as each minute passed. To try focus on something less painful, I looked down at my notebook and was suddenly filled with the urge to sketch, so I did. And it helped block out the voices in my head and the repetitive thump of the raindrops on the window.

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