There are five stages of grief, namely: Denial, Anger, Depression, Agony, Acceptance.

My therapist tried to help me process my grief stages but he was unable to help me. The tragedy happened almost a year ago and I'm still stuck in the first stage, although channeling the second stage has become my favorite.

Normally, I don't think about that terrible day but the moment my eyes caught the newspaper in my room, I know I will be in a foul mood throughout today. And that's saying something because I did put the newspaper there to remind me of what I've lost.

Music helps me sometimes but my choice of music today is not working. Sure I'm walking on the sidewalk moving my body like I'm the happiest person on Earth but with each step I take my heart pound hard against my chest, making it hard for me to breathe.

But I have keep moving forward because if I stop, I might end up having an anxiety in the middle of the road on a big campus, where everyone live their lives online. I don't want to be TikTok trend or a fucking meme.

The topic is visible in my mind. 'The Mighty Hilsa Fries has fallen'. Calling myself mighty is pretty egoistic of me but I don't care, I know I'm mighty.

Ignoring the ache in my heart, I pull all my focus on the song I'm listening to but even Harry Styles 'As It Was' can't take my mind off the obvious.

I need to not think about that day, that phone call.

A flamingo's head has to be upside down when it eats. Female ferret die if they don't mate once they go into heat. Only half a dolphin's brain sleeps at a time, they also sleep with one eye open. Blue whale are immensely heavy, they weigh equivalent of three to four elephant. Armadillos can catch leprosy. A cockroach's brain is in its body. Frogs have a three sixty degree visual range.

It's NOT working.

Why isn't it working? It works like a charm every single time.

This makes me want to pull all my hair out.

When will I heal?

It's a very good question but sadly I have no answer to it at the moment.

For me, to heal takes more pain and time. I haven't gotten there yet. I once read a book called 'Don't Be Sad' hoping to find something to ease me, but I couldn't find what I was looking for, although I learned some ways to not feel that emotion. Sadness. The name of the book says it all.

I should be used to feeling like this, and some times I handle it better than others but today it's hitting me hard. Why? Is it because I didn't get a good night sleep and my head and mind is all over the place. I've lived to this time where I don't think about the plane crash, it's my way of trying to gain control over my emotions and sometimes it works, if I see the newspaper my mind goes blank and I don't think about anything, but days like today let the emotions slips out of my stilled mind and spill all over me.

And I do not like it.

If only magic was real, I would have done so many things at the snap of my fingers. Harry Potter is my favourite series in the world and I binge all eight movies twice a year. While I've grown and mature since the first time I saw the first movie, mentality regarding the film still remains intact, which means I still wave my pencil around and shout 'Ridikulous' at no one in particular.

Heavy feet dragging against the pavement pulls me out of my thoughts. The music I'm listening to ended minutes ago, it's the last on my playlist and I didn't bother to switch to another playlist or remove my airpods.

I spot the asshole responsible for producing the unnecessary noise. He is everything I hate and punch, ranking from his stupid tattoos, I hate tattoos, got some story to back my hatred up. He's wearing all black. Typical bad boy attribute and attire.

The more closer he get, the more I notice things about him that I don't wish to notice but I can't help myself.

His jet black hair glows under the raising sun. Like I said before he's wearing all black from his v-neck that exposes the tattoo that travels under the shirt, to his arms where more tattoos are, down to the bands on both his wrists to the rings on his index and longest fingers. His jeans is similar to mine, they are both ripped in the knees.

I can feel his gaze on me as I continue to ogle him. He already caught me watching, so why stop.

"Nice style, really dig the one leg up fashion." The sarcasm is obvious in his tone. It's draws a thin line between taking his words as a compliment or an insult.

Growing up, I didn't have one thing to claim as my own until I was thirteen and I decided to dress only I know I could and own it. People made fun of it. Adults and kids together, even my own mother was always on about how I wasn't like other girls. Not my dad though, he used to tell me I'm special, learning what he truly means showed me another side of the world I didn't know existed.

People don't really make fun of others in college to their faces, they just take your pictures and post it online, and you go viral for doing what you love.

Backwards ways human beings think.

I lift my gaze to meet his emerald green eyes. My heart skips a beat. Gone, was the anxiety. His pointed nose looks like they haven't been broken, ever. His thin plump lips will look better with a cut and his perfectly shaped chiseled jaw that looks like it was specifically designed for him begs for my fist.

His face is too perfect for me not to want to punch the shit out of him but it's Monday, no violence day.

I take a calculated inhale and exhale as I tighten my fist, my finger digging into my skin. "Keep moving, jerk," I enunciate each syllable, each word.

He cocks his brows in surprise, not expecting that reply. Most people underestimate me, which is always their first mistake about me and I kind of love it, because the look on their faces when I catch them off guard is to die for, and I'm always one for fun.

Walking, I push past him, bumping my shoulder with his intentionally. His footsteps comes behind me. I remove my airpods and stuff them in the pocket of my jacket, I'll find the case later.

I focus on my empty hand as run my thumbs over my fingers, repeating the motion until he levels up with me and before I know what's happening, he grabs my arms and spins me around to face him. He snatches the coffee from my hand and squeezes the cup, causing the cover to fly off and he throws the coffee on my shirt. My white shirt.

It happened so fast that I didn't even have time to process what happened except for the end result, warm coffee dripping down my shirt.

I. Am. Going. To. Kill. him. I swear.

Remember Hilsa, such thought aren't allowed. We don't think about killing people. The good part of my subconscious reminds me.

He folds his arm across his chest watching as I furiously use my hand to wash of the stain, like that would help. "Not so tough now, are ya?" His thick Brooklyn accent shows the sarcasm in his tone.

Fuming with anger, I attack verbally before going physical. "You crazy son of a bitch!" Lunging myself at him, punching his stupid nose, I hiss and spit on him as he covers his nose with his hand. My fingers finds his neck to his exposed chest and I scratch the hell of him like a cat.

I'm too angry to see any straight, all I'm seeing is red. Who the hell does he think he is? I was on my own, I wasn't doing anything to anyone, I was on my fucking own. When are people going to learn to just leave me be.

In a quick movement after he's gotten used to my assault, he wraps his fingers around my wrists, stopping me as he spins me around, my back to his front, my wrists in his hands.

We were both out of breath. Me more than him.

His lips are in my hair, just above my left ear, and he is making soothing sounds, not hurting me just restraining me with his superior strength. "Listen to me Hilsa." I freeze. He whispered my name but I heard it. He knows my name? How the fuck does he know my name?

"I am going to drive you mad, you pack a mean punch darling but remember that you are not the only one that knows how to get angry," he whispers into my ear, I shivers as his breathe hit my ear. "By the way my name is Ethan, I will be seeing you around," he says with full confident.

Who the fuck?

I don't reply him, too angry to think straight.

He waits a few seconds before releasing my arm. Here I thought he was going to hold on to them forever, fucking asshole.

I don't turn to look at him and give him the satisfaction of winning. He just made top of my shit list and I can't wait to see him again.

*****

Pushing the door of the restroom open, I'm fuming as I scoot inside. The floor is wet, I don't care as I throw my satchel on the floor. The girls inside makes some disapproving comments but I'm not in the mood to reply.

I stop in front of the washing hand basin turning on the faucet. "Screw you Ethan. Fuck you!" Growling as I push the stained shirt under the running water and wash the stain off frantically, not that it help anything, it's a fucking white shirt.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket, sending a shock all over me because it's happened all of a sudden and my mood is sour, I wasn't expecting a fucking message.

I drop my shirt, the wet material stick against my stomach. Removing my phone from my pocket, double tapping the screen with my little finger because the rest are wet. It's a message from-argh.

Devil (purple devil emoji): Come to my office now and I mean right now! I need to talk to you.

Sneering at the message until the screen goes black, I return my phone to my back pocket.

"My day keeps getting better and better." I slap the faucet shut and turn my heels, walking toward the door, I pick up my satchel from the ground and sling it over my shoulder.

Heading toward my faculty, I enter the English department, I walk through the hallway, passing through multiple lecture theaters. I locate the office I'm going to and push the door open. The frost name plate on his mahogany table reads 'Prof M. Charles' fake smile covers my face as I enter.

I take the empty chair opposite him and sit without being told to. The truth is I don't actually give a shit, he called me here.

"Hello Hilsa, you look good today, nice shirt by the way," he says from behind his reading glasses without raising his head up.

There he is.

Marklin Charles. My Literature Professor and acting guardian, not that I need one but he's persistent which is annoying. He is Dawn's father. Dawn was my brother's ex and we used to be friends when we were young, giving we all grew up together. Mark and his family used to be our neighbor, and he's my mom's best friend. Since the loss of my family he's been there for me, much to my dislike.

I hate Mark. He forced me to go a grief counsel and signed me for multiple therapy.

Why he's still here after dealing with my shit is still a mystery? Everybody else is gone but somehow he stayed.

Maybe it's because he thinks he understands what I'm going through. Mark lost his wife in a car wreck almost eight years ago.

Out of respect for all he's done for me, I try not to be a bitch to him. I even smile when he's around.

"Don't make fun of me," I warn, glaring at him.

He raises his hand in surrender, finally meeting my eyes. "Fun of you? Now why would I do that?" He keeps his tone calm, he knew my track record. "What happened?" He asks with deep concern in his voice.

I shrug. "It's nothing, this stupid guy bumped into me," I say while studying his face for reaction. Of course he doesn't believe me. "Honestly, I'm not lying."

He keeps staring at me, not knowing if he should believe me or not, he reclines against his chair. "You've started attending class?" He asks with full certainty and I nod. "Why haven't I seen you in my class?"

I don't like Literature.

I inhale softly and what I say next is to provoke him. "I hate Shakespeare."

There, I said what everyone else is thinking.

He removed his glasses as if it was a reflex reaction. "What? How can you hate William Shakespeare? It's William the father of-"

"Tragedy?" I interrupt him. I hate all William Shakespeare's book, and I have read all his book including reading different versions of Macbeth, I also saw WILL, a television series based on him. And I have no reason for hating him, in case anyone wants to come for me. I'm entitled to my opinions.

He titters and shakes his head. "He was mostly known for his tragedy novels, he wrote comedy too, besides who doesn't love William Shakespeare? Have you seen Leonardo DiCaprio's Romeo and Juliet?" He asks.

"I don't have to, I know it's shit, and Its not Leonardo DiCaprio's Romeo and Juliet, its just Romeo and Juliet plus it probably as boring as the book." Letting out a full mouth dramatic yawn to prove my point.

Anything that isn't Harry Potter or Natgeo wild is a no for me these days.

He clamps his hand together and move forward, leaning his arms on his desk. "So you've actually read it," He jokes, I scoff, he got me. "We are currently on Oliver Twist in class."

My arm jerk off the arm of the chair in shock. I don't remember seeing that in the syllabus. "Oliver Twist, huh?" My tone switching to annoying. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Language Hilsa, and yes I'm kidding, it's Othello we are analysing, and since I see that you are interested in coming back to my class, you should read it before coming to the next class because it's the last class we have before finals."

He knows I'm not going to read it. I've read it during my Shakespeare's week in High School.

"I'm not coming." I assure him. "Now why don't you tell me why you called me here in the first place," I remind him because I know Marklin, once he sees me in a good mood he always takes advantage of it.

"What do you mean you aren't coming? Hilsa, you have attended any classes this semester, you might taken the year off. Finals are coming, how are you going to prepare?"

He cares for me but sometimes I think he worries too much.

"I'll try my best, happy?" I give him a fake smile. "Why you called here?" Reminding him again.

"First of all I didn't call you, I sent a text message. Michelle is having a bit of a problem with teachers in her school," he tells me but I'm not sure where this conversation is going or how it concerns me.

Michelle aka Mark's wife is the Principal of some private school. "And that is my business because...?" I really am eager to know, just because I open up to him doesn't mean he has to open up to me, I'm not his daughter.

"One of the main homeroom teacher is sick, they need a substitute Art teacher, just someone to teach them about drawing." He explains.

I fold my arm across my chest and blink my eyes twice. "And?" Raising my brows.

"I recommended you," he blurts out.

Say what now?

I pout my mouth in a you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me way. "You recommended me?" Everything became blur, something is definitely wrong with my ear because I think I just heard him say he recommended me for a teaching position at his sister's school. "Because?" Urging him to continue.

"You need this Hilsa, being around people, children might help you-" he cut himself off, immediately realizing he's said the wrong thing. He doesn't even see my jaw clenches. "I didn't mean it like that, what I meant was the kids need a substitute practical art teacher," He explains further.

I unfold my arm and place it on my lap. "Why me?" I ask, am sure there are thousands of people out there that are more qualify for this job than I am. A college studying Art and Design not education, I'm not sure I'm the right person for the job.

He gets up and round his desk and sit on it in front of me. "Because you are very good at what you do." A simple answer.

I mean I know am but that doesn't explain why I have to teach.

"Why should I? I hate kids, freaking teenagers," I say, muttering the last part. I don't hate kids and I don't particularly like them.

"Because you need this. Congratulations, you'll be teaching middle school students for the next four weeks."

Four weeks? I thought the teacher is sick, not dead.

I jump off the chair using both my hand to stop him. "Whoa whoa whoa, I never said I'll do it." Making myself clear.

He moves toward me and wraps his arms around me in an embrace. "You can do it, you are just afraid and," He pulls away me, not in a rude way. "You are soaking wet, whose idea was it to love white?" A rhetorical question.

Okay the hug was weird.

"Send me the details including the day I'll start," I say as I gather my bag. I ignore the voice in my head that says I shouldn't do it, they are just teenager what is the worse that can happen.

"Thank you for your time Hilsa, and don't forget it's Othello by William Shakespeare, okay William Shakespeare!" He says emphasizing that William Shakespeare part, I get the point old man.

"You could have saved yourself the breath when you know I won't be attending your class, am retaking it next semester." A lie.

"You want to have an extra year?"

I rub my right ear almost like my hand is blocking his words away. "See you later Professor C," I open the door and rush out. I rest my back behind the door after closing it, I sigh closing my eyes.

"Hilsa," A familiar voice calls my name.

Peeling my eyes open slowly to see Dawn-Aurora life in front of me, it's been months since I last saw her. The image of our last meet floods my head but I shake it off, the last thing I need is Mark separating me and his daughter from a brutal fight.

She is changed, compared to the last time I saw her. Her black hair, which use to be short, is longer. Her brown skin is glowing like she underwent some kind of sparkling procedure. And she's wearing sweats. The Dawn I used know would never leave the house in sweats, she's all woman in that aspect, not going unless she's wearing some makeup. She's not even wearing makeup today.

"Your dad is free now." I push myself off the door and start to walk away until her voice stops me.

"I hope it was worth it," she says and enters her father's office.

Whatever does that mean. I am not about to find out.