Friday morning arrives, and my alarm goes off like a blaring siren, dragging me out of the thin layer of sleep I managed to get. I groan, half-tempted to throw my pillow at the clock, but somehow resist. I barely slept last night, tossing and turning as anxiety gnawed at me over today's Spanish class. My brain decided 2 a.m. was the perfect time to replay every single conjugation mistake I made at the beginning of the week, and let's not even talk about how many times Bryan smirk invaded my dreams.

With a sigh, I drag myself out of bed and stumble into the bathroom, squinting at my reflection. My hair is a wild, tangled mess, sticking out in all directions like it's trying to escape the impending doom of the day. "Well, good morning to you too," I mutter, grabbing my brush to smooth out the chaos. After a few minutes of battling with knots, I manage to get my long black hair to fall loosely around my shoulders, looking presentable—if a bit frazzled.

I move on to my makeup, staring at the concealer like it's my only hope for looking like a functioning human being. Okay, Amber, I tell myself, you don't need to look perfect, just presentable enough so people don't think you've been living in a cave. I dab on some concealer to cover the bags under my eyes, add a bit of blush to bring life to my pale cheeks, and swipe on a soft pink lipstick. My eyeliner takes a couple of attempts—one wing ends up looking like a majestic bird and the other more like a sad pigeon, but I figure it's good enough.

For my outfit, I go for something that strikes a balance between "I'm totally fine" and "I might cry if Spanish verbs come at me too aggressively." I pull on a cozy cream-colored sweater that's soft enough to comfort me but stylish enough to make me look like I have my life together. I pair it with jeans that thankfully fit perfectly (after doing the usual wiggle-dance to get them on) and my trusty black crocs. I give myself a final once-over in the mirror and sigh. "Alright, let's pretend you've got this," I whisper, even though my stomach is already doing anxious somersaults.

I trudge into the kitchen, where Izzy is already awake and sipping on her coffee like a functional, fully energized human. How she does it, I'll never understand. Her blonde hair is pulled up into a cute messy bun, and she's wearing an oversized forest green hoodie with black leggings—looking effortlessly put together, as usual.

"Morning," she greets me, her blue eyes widening slightly when she sees the wariness in mine. "You good? You look like you're about to face a firing squad."

I slump into a chair, clutching my water bottle like a lifeline. "It's the Spanish class," I admit. " I'm trying not to spiral, but... yeah. I barely slept, so I feel like a zombie."

Izzy puts down her coffee and leans across the table, giving me a sympathetic look. "Amber, you're going to be fine. Remember what I said: you don't have to be perfect. And if Bryan gives you any trouble, you have full permission to mentally throw a Spanish dictionary at his head."

I force a small smile, Izzy's pep talk helping a bit. "Thanks. I'll try to survive without a full-blown meltdown."

She grins and takes another sip of her coffee. "You'll do great. And if all else fails, just remind yourself that the weekend is almost here."

—------

I hurry out of the dorm, the crisp morning air hitting me like a wake-up call. The campus is already buzzing with students, and I weave my way through the crowd, feeling the anxiety of the day prickling at the edges of my mind. It's Friday, which should be a relief, but with Spanish class looming and the thought of facing Bryan again, relaxation feels like a distant dream.

With my heart pounding, I pick up my pace, nearly tripping over a stray crack in the sidewalk as I make a mad dash toward the language building. My bag thumps rhythmically against my back, and I feel my hair whipping around my face. "Why do I always do this to myself?" I mutter under my breath.

The language building looms ahead, and I mentally prepare myself for the possibility of being the center of attention if I'm even a second late. With one last sprint, I race up the steps and push through the doors, hoping desperately that I can slip into class unnoticed.

I burst into the classroom just as the professor is setting down her notes. My shoes squeak embarrassingly on the floor, and a few heads turn in my direction. I duck my head, my cheeks flaming, and make a beeline for the nearest empty seat. Thankfully, the professor doesn't seem too bothered and continues with her introduction to today's lesson, speaking rapid Spanish that flies right over my head.

I sink into my chair, trying to catch my breath and calm the frantic beating of my heart. My hair has fallen into my face from the sprint, so I hastily push it back, hoping I don't look too much like I've just escaped a tornado.

I glance around the room, and that's when my gaze locks onto Bryan. He's sitting a few rows away, leaning back in his chair with an annoyingly relaxed posture. His dark eyes flick up from his notebook, and I catch the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips. Of course, he would find my disheveled entrance amusing.

Great, I think, feeling my irritation spike. Just what I needed to make this day even better.

I try to focus on the professor, but it's almost impossible. The words coming out of her mouth are like a whirlwind of unfamiliar phrases, and I struggle to keep up, scribbling down what little I can understand. Every time I glance at my notes, I feel a new wave of panic. I don't belong in this class. The realization feels like a heavy weight on my chest, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

As the lecture continues, I keep catching myself sneaking glances at Bryan, who looks perfectly at ease. It's infuriating. How can he sit there so casually while I feel like I'm drowning? I clutch my pen tighter, trying to suppress the annoyance bubbling up inside me.

Finally, the professor starts wrapping up the lesson and launches into a description of our project. My heart sinks even further as she explains that today we'll have to work in pairs. I already know who my partner is, but hearing her say it out loud makes the dread feel even more real.

"Amber and Bryan," she calls out, and I feel a pit open in my stomach.

I can almost sense Bryan's gaze shifting toward me, and when I dare to look up, he's already leaning forward, one eyebrow raised. His expression is a mix of amusement and disinterest, and he tilts his head ever so slightly, as if waiting to see how I'll react.

The professor claps her hands, drawing everyone's attention. "Alright, class," she says in crisp Spanish, her voice slicing through the chatter. "As I mentioned last week, this project is an in-depth exploration of your future aspirations—Sus futuros caminos," she emphasizes. "You will work with your assigned partners to create a presentation entirely in Spanish, discussing your academic and career goals, and how they connect to the culture and language we're studying. It must be engaging and well-researched, so use this time wisely to start planning."

My stomach twists at her words, and I feel a fresh wave of anxiety wash over me. A whole presentation about our future paths in fluent Spanish? Great. Just great. My gaze shifts to Bryan, who seems completely unfazed, and I'm reminded all over again of our last argument. He had made it clear that working together wasn't his idea of fun, and his refusal to collaborate only made everything feel ten times harder.

I watch in reluctant horror as Bryan gets up from his seat, sauntering over to my desk like he's taking a casual stroll through the park. He drops into the chair next to mine, completely unbothered, and sets his notebook down with a thud. I'm still seething from our last argument, and seeing him so nonchalant only fuels my irritation further.

I tap my pen against my notebook, trying to focus on the professor's additional instructions, but I'm too distracted by my frustration. The rapid Spanish flying around the room feels like a storm I can't keep up with, only adding to my stress. Every time I glance over at Bryan, he looks perfectly relaxed, like he belongs here in this advanced class, unlike me, who can barely make sense of what's going on.

As if sensing my glare, Bryan glances over. He catches my eye and—of course—his lips twitch into that infuriating smirk. He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused, and leans slightly in my direction.

"¿Todavía enojada, Amber?" he whispers, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. Still angry, Amber?

I clench my jaw, trying to ignore the way his smooth Spanish rolls off his tongue effortlessly. "No me hables," I mutter under my breath. Don't talk to me. My cheeks heat up, partly from anger and partly from embarrassment at how clunky my Spanish sounds compared to his.

He chuckles softly, like he finds my reaction entertaining. "Tranquila," he says, leaning back in his chair. Relax. "You're going to give yourself a heart attack over this project."

I grip my pen tighter, imagining what it would feel like to throw it at him. "Some of us actually care about doing well," I snap back, barely keeping my voice in check.

Bryan shrugs, as if my anger is the most amusing thing he's seen all day. "Well, I hope you're ready to carry your part," he says, switching back to English, his tone light but with an edge that makes my blood boil even more. "Wouldn't want to mess up your precious GPA."

I can feel the frustration building in my chest, but I force myself to look straight ahead, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me react further. He leans back in his chair, still grinning, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to explode.

I try to stay calm, but being forced to sit next to Bryan feels like torture. Every time I speak, I'm hyper-aware of how imperfect my Spanish sounds, and with Bryan's smug presence beside me, the pressure is almost unbearable.

"Podemos... uh... dividir las... cosas y luego... um, trabajar juntos?" I stammer, my cheeks burning as I struggle to piece together even the simplest sentence. We can... divide the things and then... uh, work together? It's painfully obvious that I have no idea what I'm doing, and the embarrassment stings.

Bryan snorts, not even trying to hide his amusement. He leans in, his voice dripping with mockery. "Cosas y trabajar juntos?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow. "Wow, that was... almost understandable. Almost." His smirk widens, and he chuckles softly to himself, clearly reveling in my humiliation.

I grip my pen so tightly that I'm surprised it doesn't snap in half. "Can you not?" I snap back, glaring at him. "I'm trying, okay?"

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, his eyes still dancing with laughter. "Hey, no need to get defensive, Amber," he says. "I'm just appreciating your... valiant effort." His emphasis on those last words makes me want to throw my notebook at his head.

"Maybe if you actually helped instead of sitting there like a smug jerk, I wouldn't be making mistakes," I retort, my voice shaking with anger.

Bryan leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why should I bother?" he says, his voice calm but full of infuriating amusement. "Watching you get all flustered is way more entertaining. Besides, I'm just here to do my half separately, remember?"

My face feels like it's on fire. "You're unbelievable," I hiss, practically seething. "Do you enjoy making people feel small, or is it just your hobby to make me miserable?"

He shrugs, as if my anger is nothing more than a mild inconvenience. "I don't have to try that hard," he says, his grin widening. "You're pretty good at working yourself up."

I clench my jaw, my fists trembling with frustration. Every part of me wants to lash out, but I force myself to take a deep breath. Losing my cool is exactly what he wants. He's not just insufferable; he's an expert at pushing every button I have.

"Fine," I say, my voice icy. "We'll do it your way. But if this project ends up a mess, it's on you."

Bryan's smirk doesn't waver. "Deal. But, for the record," he says, his voice still dripping with that annoying sarcasm, "you make it way too easy to get under your skin, Amber."

I grit my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, I turn back to my notebook, trying desperately to block out his laughter. My Spanish might be a mess, and Bryan might be the most insufferable human I've ever met, but I'm determined not to let him win.

Even if it kills me.

The professor finally dismisses the class, and I gather my things as quickly as possible, shoving my notebook into my bag with more force than necessary. Bryan is still lounging in his chair, looking way too relaxed for someone who just spent the entire class being the most insufferable person on the planet. I avoid his gaze as I sling my bag over my shoulder and hurry out of the room, grateful to escape his smug presence.

By the time I step out into the crisp afternoon air, my head is pounding from both the stress of the class and the lingering annoyance from Bryan. Just breathe, Amber, I tell myself, taking a moment to inhale the fresh air and calm my racing thoughts. The walk back to my dorm feels longer than usual, but the idea of lunch with Isabella—Izzy—lifts my spirits a little. She always knows how to cheer me up.

When I finally reach our dorm, I push open the door to find Izzy sprawled out on the couch in the common area, her long blonde hair tied up in a high ponytail. She's wearing her favorite oversized navy blue hoodie and black leggings, scrolling through her phone with a bowl of chips balanced precariously on her lap.

"Hey!" She greets me, looking up with a wide smile. "How was Spanish class?" She already knows the answer, judging by the look on my face, but her blue eyes sparkle with amusement anyway.

I drop my bag onto the floor with a dramatic sigh and collapse onto the couch next to her. "Don't even get me started," I groan. "Bryan Munzo is the worst."

Izzy's grin widens, and she offers me the bowl of chips. "Oh no, what did he do this time? Insult your Spanish, make fun of your notes, or just generally be a pain in the—"

"All of the above," I interrupt, grabbing a handful of chips and munching on them. "I swear, he's like some kind of evil genius when it comes to getting under my skin. And we have this huge project, and he still refuses to work with me properly. He's impossible."

Izzy shakes her head, her smile turning sympathetic. "Well, at least you're done with him for today. And now you have the magic of comfort food and me to make things better." She winks, then gestures to the small kitchen area. "I made sandwiches, by the way. Turkey and avocado, your favorite."

I feel my mood lift at her words. "Izzy, you're a lifesaver," I say, following her into the kitchen. She's already laid out the sandwiches on plates, and the sight of real food makes my stomach rumble.

We sit down at the tiny kitchen table, and for the first time all day, I feel myself relax. Between bites of my sandwich, I recount the highlights—and lowlights—of the class, complete with dramatic reenactments of Bryan's smirk and condescending remarks. Izzy laughs so hard she nearly chokes on her drink, and I can't help but laugh along with her, the tension from earlier slowly fading away.

Lunch with Izzy is exactly what I needed.

—---

You made it to the end of Chapter Nine! 🎉

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See you soon in the next chapter for more drama, laughs, and surprises! Stay tuned! ✨