"You haven't completed any of these properly, Miss Neversea," Professor Hartley exhales, as if breathing out the last of his hope for my success, "You will stand no chance in achieving your degree if I'm the only one trying."

I can't stand to look at the disappointment painted over his sharp features and instead cast my gaze down to the desk. He really isn't sugarcoating anything, is he?

"I tried for the beginning," I swear, frustrated at his lack of sympathy, "but you don't seem to understand that when you give me a stack of work, you cannot expect the entire thing to be the same high quality. This shit gets boring fast. How about you format these things differently once in a while? None of this is going to stick in my head."

His jaw closes tightly as he flips the booklet shut on my desk. Hannah tenses beside me, radiating remorse for my lack of a filter.

"This isn't primary or secondary school: we aren't going to baby you and spoon feed you your degree. This university is your last chance, and one you perhaps don't deserve if this is the effort you are putting in. Please see me after the lecture," casting me a meaningful look, he leaves.

I blink emotionlessly for a while before irritation creeps into my veins.

Hannah prods me, "Did you not see that coming?"

Turning to face her, I wear a flat look. She winces at my response but expands on her point, "I'm sorry but I can't say I don't agree with a little bit of what he's saying."

Before I move away completely, she grabs my wrist, "Wait, come on. I'm saying this because we're friends and I want you to do well."

"I know," I sigh, turning my anger to myself and my stubbornness, "I'm sorry. I'll work harder from now on."

As usual, the lecture seems to last a lot longer than two hours. Inevitably, Professor Hartley glances at his watch and dismisses everyone, wandering back to his desk to reorganise his carefully stacked documents.

"Is this going to be a routine, Miss Neversea?" Professor Hartley asks as the other students file out in a mess of chatter and laughs.

I shrug, "If you keep making it one, then yes."

"I think you need to stop seeing me as the bad guy," he reveals, though it comes as no surprise.

Lifting my gaze to find his glasses-framed eyes, I reply, "Professor Hartley, you're just going to tell me that I need to work harder. I already know that I've been less than co-operative. And fine, I'll actually pull my crap together. Can I leave now?"

"How many times do I need to correct you? It's sir. And no, you can't leave, I actually have a suggestion for you," he stops me, taking of his glasses and leaning back against his chair.

Preparing myself for the worst, I sit back down, hugging my bag to my chest.

"I want you to get a tutor."

I laugh.

"LOL."

He isn't amused.

"I lied, it wasn't a suggestion. It's an order," he admits, though not one bit regretful as my jaw drops.

"Seriously?! Nononono, no tutor, not me, no way," I frantically shake my head, "Who did you even have in mind?!"

"Well," he ponders over a response, "Grant, actually. He's actually doing quite we-"

"NO," I gape further, "Anyone but him. And anything but tutoring! I promise I'll pull my shit together!"

Decision unchanged, he shakes his head, "I'm not going to apologise, Miss Neversea. I am permitted by this university to advise students - and force them if they are unco-operative - on methods that will strengthen their chances of emerging with a qualification."

Mood thoroughly dampened, I swing my bag over my shoulder and leave without replying, fuming.

"Your first lesson in today, 5pm. This room."

I slam the door shut behind me with enough force to open the gates of hell.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

"I'm not going," I state as soon as my English professor walks into our shared dorm room, closing the door behind him.

"It is not a changeable decision. I suggest you are compliant," he responds, formal as usual.

I scoff, unforgetting, "Are you really suggesting?"

Picking up on my bitter tone, he removes his blazer, folding it carefully onto the desk, "No."

Half an hour later, I'm throwing open the door for room B18 and meeting the unwanted gaze of Grant.

"Hey," he greets.

I don't know what to feel. I'm confused, angry, intimidated, and have this heavy sinking feeling in my chest. Despite this, I begrudgingly shut the door behind me, wishing I could inflict severe pain on Professor Hartley for what I am about to endure.

"Hi. Let's get this over with."

"Which page?"

I drop my bag onto a random chair near the back of the room and yank out the despicable item that is the booklet. Slamming it onto the desk, I sink into my seat, "From the beginning. Clearly, he doesn't think I did any of it right," I mutter, knowing that I didn't have to supply a name for Grant to know exactly who I was talking about.

He wanders over to me, and hesitantly says, "Can we just talk for a minute?"

"We're talking now," I state, eyes forward and avoiding his.

A sigh.

"I mean about all the stuff that happened."

I finally address the issue, leaning my elbow on the desk and exhaling, "Alright, whatever. You like me, I get it, you used Hannah to get me alone and you probably paid someone to do it."

"Can you stop being so cold?" he barks out, gaze narrowed, "You act as if it's irrational to like someone."

I immediately take offence, standing up and returning his look, "Fuck no. You think situation is okay? That your actions were justified? I think this goes a step further than just 'liking' someone."

"I'm sorry, okay?!" he exclaims, clearly not sorry at all.

I push him back, "I'm leaving in fifteen minutes. The only reason I'm still here is because Professor Hartley won't let me abandon these sessions."

The expression on his face tells me he is about to poke the bear once more, "You like him, don't you? That's why you won't date me - you want to be with him."

I can't help but karate chop that blasphemous idea right out of his head, "What? No! He's my professor! I know about this uni's rules! I don't want to volunteer to be kicked out!"

Shaking his head in disbelief, he seems to engrave this dumb concept further into his mind, "You like him. I can't believe it. We are meant to be together," he steps closer, eyes desperate.

I whip out my unforgiving attitude and step back just as he comes closer, "No, Grant. I don't like you in that way. In fact, I don't like you in any way now. Sorry, but I'm not going to trust someone who used someone else to lie to me."

He backs me into the wall as a feeling of fear crawls up the back of my neck and I cross my arms, "What are you doing?"

"We were made for each other," he mumbles, barely coherent as he reaches to tuck a wave of hair behind my ear.

Flinching, my heart races in my chest. An uncomfortable feeling engulfs me head to toe as he leans in.

His movements are calculated and slow as his head settles into my neck. I freeze, blood running cold as my vocal chords shatter.

A pair of lips meet my neck and hands circle my torso, brushing my chest.

Alarms bells sounds and I'm instantly shoving him back so hard that it sounds like his spine breaks.

I fly out the room, abandoning my bag. My heart works double as fast, pumping adrenaline around my body as my breathing comes out uneven and rushed. I slam into several people and can't find it in me to utter a sorry. I am thankful for the pain of the impact - it replaces Grant's touch.

By the time I've scrambled upstairs and thrown the door of my room open, I'm collapsing to my knees, gasping for air with my hands coiled tight enough to draw blood.

◈proғ. нarтley◈

The plethora of blooming petals fall inbetween my fingers as I place down the bouquet beside the headstone. The cold stone greets my fingers in an unspoken hello as the brisk wind throttles past.

I'm knelt in front of her grave, on a hunt for my bright childhood personality that has vanished over the years.

The stress and worry from the past few days pumps through my veins in replacement of blood and I cling to our memories together to keep me sane.

Today is her anniversary.

She should have anniversaries for her marriage, not for her death. And yet, I'm still kneeling here, eyes reading the engraved message on her headstone with a heavy feeling in my gut. I've memorised the caption so exactly that I could recite it in a second flat.

Addilyn Hartley.
14th August 1992 - 28th November 2007
A beloved daughter, sister, friend, and cherished angel who will be dearly missed by her family and friends for evermore. Rest in peace, our Addy, we can't wait to see you again some day.

I glance at my watch, biting my lip as it ticks past 5:23. This minute marks ten years since Addilyn pulled the latch to the school's roof open and threw herself off the side of the building. She landed on the road, got run over by a speeding car, and was pronounced dead at the scene.

I watched from my science classroom, mid-experiment, as her body tumbled to the ground. I recognised her blue eyes staring at me immediately. The acid slipped through my fingers like water and the test tube shattered over the floor.

With a pain in my chest, I lift my hand. The memory stains my fingertips.

All of her suffering could have been eased if someone would have told her what every teenager needs to be reminded on those bad days.

You're enough.

There were no signs that she was torn apart; there was no sign that this desperation to meet the standards of her peers was breaking her apart from the inside; there was no warning that she would commit suicide without a second's thought.

It just... happened.

We lost her so fast.

I would give anything and everything to have her back. I would give my life just to glimpse her, alive and breathing, for a fraction of a millisecond. Just to get the reassurance that she is happy now.

Standing up, I bury the last of my sadness deep inside of me amd tuck my hands into my pockets.

"I miss you, Addy. I'll be back next year... as always," I murmur, despising the shrubs that grew around her grave, as if trapping her in.

I'm tearing them away a minute later, distress crawling up my throat as I frustratedly walk away before I can change my mind.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

I return to my room ten minutes later. My mood is sunken.

As I close the door behind me, the clink of my car keys being placed on the desk unusually loud, I scan the room for an eighteen year old troublemaker.

I zone in on the bathroom door and the unavoidable sound of panicked breathing.

●（=｀～'=） ●

I KNOW IT'S BEEN A CENTURY, I'M SORRY.

I got really sick a little while ago and I'm still not fully recovered. I know that's a rubbish excuse, but I also hit some writer's block. After deciding to scrap the chapter I was having difficulty with, I was much more motivated to write this one.

Sorry for the cliffy!

Love you guys.

Salutations,
Agent Spud 🥔