What had I done to deserve Mr. Wright’s attention?

Lying on my rough hostel bed, I looked up at the ceiling and tried to interpret the chipped-paint Morse code’s mysterious messages. Sadly, all it said was an existential dread of a girl being unwillingly “cared for.” Ugh.

Ethan’s voice still rang in my head from that day in the coffee shop.

“I need you to look out for her, Chris. Treat her like your own.”

First off all, I wasn’t an abandoned puppy in need of adoption.

Secondly, what did that even mean? Like his own what? Sister? daughter? Responsibility? The ambiguity alone was enough to make my skin itch.

And then there was Wright—or should I say Mr. Wright—who sat there, sipping his coffee with that maddeningly poised face. The kind of look that screamed, Don’t worry, I’ve got this under control, while simultaneously exuding But do I, though?

He’d agreed so quickly, like the thought of taking on a bratty, sarcastic teenager was his idea of entertainment.

Why?

The ceiling offered no answers, only the faint outline of a water stain shaped like a lopsided heart.

I turned onto my side, my pillow muffling the groan that had been building in my throat. Why did I care so much? Wright was a teacher, for crying out loud.

A teacher with the personality of an unflavored rice cake and the moral compass of a Boy Scout. So why did I feel like every word he said carried some hidden agenda?

That day in the coffee shop had been the start of it. The beginning of... whatever this was. Wright had looked at me like I was a math problem he’d been handed without any instructions.

His brow furrowed just slightly, lips pressed together in an expression that wasn’t quite a frown but definitely wasn’t a smile.

At that time, I’d interpreted it as a judgment.

The “how-did-this-clumsy-girl-share-a-genetic-pool-with-Ethan” kind of judgment.

And maybe there was a flicker of that—he had known Ethan during his golden years, after all—but now I wasn’t so sure.

The memory was like a movie I couldn’t stop replaying in my head, only this one didn’t come with subtitles to decode Wright’s expressions. Why had he accepted? Why had Ethan been so insistent?

And why, why, did Wright now act like I was made of glass that might shatter under his gaze or like I am a pitiful kitten who was kicked out from her house?

It wasn’t just that he made me feel things I couldn’t name—things that knotted up in my chest and made it hard to breathe when he was around.

It was the way he seemed to encircle me, always there, never too close, never too far, his presence both reassuring and suffocating.

I sat up, hugging my knees to my chest. The room was quiet, save for Mia’s soft breathing from the bunk above me. She’d fallen asleep ages ago, blissfully unaware of my emotional turmoil. Lucky her, or lucky me, don’t know!

I glanced around our tiny, shared space, hoping for a distraction. The walls were covered in mismatched posters—Mia’s were bright and cheerful, featuring K-pop stars with jawlines sharper than my wit.

Mine were moodier: abstract art and a single poster of an old movie Ethan had forced me to watch. It was called ‘Dead Poets Society’, and I’d kept it up as a kind of ironic nod to my existence in this academic prison.

But even the clutter of the room couldn’t pull me out of my spiraling thoughts.

What had I done to deserve Wright’s attention? Was it a pity? Obligation? Or something else entirely?

A pang of guilt hit me as I remembered Ethan’s face that day. He’d been so earnest, so determined to make sure I had someone to lean on. He didn’t know I hated the idea of leaning on anyone, least of all a teacher, who already made my life a living hell. But Ethan hadn’t seen the cracks in me. Not really.

The cracks started forming years ago, after Mom died. Dad had tried, I guess. But then he remarried, and it was like someone hit the fast-forward button on his personality makeover.

Suddenly, I wasn’t his bright, witty daughter anymore—I was the problem, literally the problem! The one who didn’t fit neatly into the picture-perfect family dad was trying to construct with my stepmother.

I closed my eyes, the memories coming back like a wave I couldn’t hold off.

I’d been thirteen when it all came to a head. A brawl at the dinner table, words thrown like blades. My stepmother’s loud voice cutting through the air, accusing me of being disrespectful, ungrateful, impossible to live with. And Dad...hahaha…

Dad had sided with her.

The man who used to tell me bedtime tales and help me with my science projects looked me in the eye and said, “Maybe it’s time you learned some manners!”

That was when he decided to send me away. To the boarding school that was supposed to “straighten me out.”

Ethan hadn’t known. He was busy building his career, living in his apartment miles away. I hadn’t told him. I didn’t want him to see how far I’d fallen in Dad’s eyes.

But Ethan found out eventually. He showed up at the school unannounced, his face a mix of rage and heartbreak. I still remembered the way his voice shook when he confronted me.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Alina? Why?”

That really broke my heart like a final blow! I can feel his emotions but don’t want to admit anything!

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Because it’s not your problem. And I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Not my problem?” he’d echo, his voice rising. “You’re my sister, Alina. You’re all I have left.”

That’s when he introduced me to Chris. Ethan had been desperate to make sure I wasn’t completely alone. And Mr. Wright... Chris had been the convenient solution.

I knew his intention and didn’t want to give him any more trouble! That’s why I kept my mouth shut!

Back in the present, I sighed, flopping onto my back. Mr. Wright’s face from that day flashed in my mind again—equal parts surprised and unreadable. He’d agreed so easily to Ethan’s request. Too easily.

And now, every time I saw him, I couldn’t help but wonder what he saw when he looked at me. Did he see me as a challenge? A burden? Or something else entirely?

I hated how much space he took up in my head. I hated how his presence seemed to linger, even when he wasn’t there.

And most of all, I hated how a small, traitorous part of me didn’t hate it at all.

The cracks in my carefully constructed walls were growing, and I didn’t know how much longer I could hold them together.