The mostly vacant hallway attracts more attention to me than I like, the only person barreling towards the students waiting for the ancient elevator to arrive. Their heads are already turned towards me observing my walk. Piercing eyes shoot through me; some hit me on my chest, my arms, my swaying dress, my bloodshot eyes. None of them are equal to me, except maybe one. A skinny blonde girl, with the palest of blue on the front pieces of her hair. Rings sprinkle her painted black fingers and her jeans have rips on the knees of them. Standing there, with her friend who doesn't make an impression on me. I glance her way and her eyes match the blue in her hair, that is the only thing I can notice before I glance back down to my phone, pretending to re-read the room number H-101.

Both doors that lead into the classroom are closed, no students stand outside. I don't walk into classrooms that aren't open on the first day, in respect to the professor. Normally, they say feel free to come in, after that I always do. I sit with my back against the wall, out of breath still from walking back and forth in search of the classroom. It is tucked away right next to the back exit and I kept ignoring the doors as if they weren't there every time I passed them. Some girl walks up, her dull brown hair straight as a stick. "Is this your class?" she says, her hands are full and trembling like she is nervous.

"Yeah, I don't want to go in yet." She holds a bag with a large biology textbook, a few jolly ranchers, a tumbler cup, and a lunch box. You can tell she is one of the new graduates from high school, starting her first day at college. She shuffles around and her hands continue shaking " I almost didn't make it on time." She wipes her forehead with her hand, then pushes up her glasses before dropping her bag. She lets out a frustrated sigh, like this has been the worst day already. "Here," I grab the book and hold it for her. "get situated."

She lets out an embarrassed laugh before putting her cup into the designated holder on her backpack, then placing the candies into her pocket. I give the textbook back and then look forward, not interested in any small talk with the ill prepared girl. Every time the door opens at the end of the hall, my head shoots that way and I watch who is coming in. I'm gauging the people, guessing which one could be my professor. First is an older woman, cheetah print flats. Not her. Next is a young guy with long hair that is in a ponytail, emo apparel. Not him. Then, a tall slender woman, crisp white shirt, flowy blue skirt. It's her, she caught my attention. I don't look away yet, she passes the elevator and the classroom on the right. I wonder if she feels like I did, walking down this hallway with all eyes on me.

She approaches me and the other girl that I forgot about until now, "You guys can go in." She laughs as if it is silly that we waited. Her keys jangle around her wrists. Dark locs of hair stop at her shoulders and pair well with her tan skin, her face is bare showing the slightest of dark circles under her eyes. I walk in the other door and see a few students but can't see their faces because the room is dark. Then, when I set my eyes on a seat and head for it they turn on. "Good morning" the professor says with a smile. Her eyes meet mine and I smile back and nod my head instead of using words. She seems flustered. Her eyes dart between the three screens in front of her while her fingers stampede on the keyboard.

The online students always slow class down, the professor spends at least five minutes trying to get the zoom to pull up. Once it is pulled up, an unflattering profile picture is displayed for her icon. A sideways angle of her smiling next to a Ravenclaw symbol. One of the online students must of said something about it, "In class students, you can't see this but someone mentioned they are Gryffindor, I am obviously Ravenclaw... if you guys know what that is." Some students shake their heads no, uncultured swine's.

"Oh." Is all she says without giving any further context to those who don't know.

Throughout the class, her eyes dart to me, begging me to answer her prying questions about the short story What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. "What does the narrator think about Mel?" She narrows her eyes on the screen. "Cheyenne says that he looks up to Mel. What do you all think?" her eyes travel to me again. Like she knows that I know. A few others answer her, but they don't actually answer her because they are all wrong. She looks at me again, those dark begging eyes. "I disagree with everyone." I chime in. She almost looks relieved now.

"The narrator thinks that Mel has the audacity." I could go more into detail, but her eyes perk up and she points at me. "Yes! Perfectly put." She goes on to point out the tone and the details that prove me right. At the end of the story, the same thing happens again. The students are spouting off surface level observations about the end of the story. Her eyes beg me again and I relent. "They are all affected now, even the narrator. The night and conversation wore them down, if you look at the snappiness of the narrator towards Laura, for no reason I might add, shows it."

She gets that same excited look on her face. She knows that I get it, and she wonders what else I might understand that others do not. She goes on to tell me that in the years of showing this story no one else has made that observation. It surprises me a little, and I wonder if even she didn't realize that.

When the class comes to an end and everyone darts from the room I stay behind, slowly packing up my notebook. When it is just me and her, I ask, "Did you notice it before?" She laughs tilting her head to the side. "Of course I did, I just want you guys to learn to interpret these stories on a much deeper level." She moves from behind her podium and walks towards me. "You surprised me though." I cant help but feel a little nervous when she stops right in front of me, a little close for comfort. "How so?" I ask her while fiddling with the hem of my shirt, a nervous tell of mine.

I wonder if she would notice that, if her mind is as observant and intricate as mine. "You know how to already, that is really rare. Some people can go through hundreds of courses like this and never fully grasp it." She's moving her hands as she talks signaling her excitedness "I write sometimes, so I try to understand deeper meanings from other authors. I mean, I'm not saying I'm an author or anything..." I start rambling, another nervous tell of mine. Her brows furrow, "You can call yourself an author, I'd actually love to read some of your work." My fingers tingle from nerves.

I let out a small laugh, turning away a bit in fear that my cheeks are turning red. "I'll have to see what I have finished." I lie. I have so many complete pieces, I just don't show anyone my work. More than likely, she will never see an original piece by me unless it is an assignment. Showing someone my original work, my own thoughts and ideas, is a vulnerable thing for me. Having a prompt is easy, based on something. She squints her eyes at me, and the room goes dark. The lights turn off from lack of movement in the room. It is just me and her, standing in the dark.

I fight off the feeling that this is an intimate moment. Instead of moving, we both just stood there. Two people, each intrigued by the others mind.