Marked by the professor

The alarm blares at 7:30 AM, same as every Tuesday. I slap it off before the third beep, just like always. My dorm room is dim, the morning sun seeping through the blinds. I don’t move right away. Instead, I stare at the ceiling and count the cracks eleven, twelve, thirteen like they’re the only things in my life with any kind of pattern. 

  Another day. Another class. Another pointless conversation with Jack. 

  I drag myself out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold linoleum. The mirror shows me what it always does messy brown hair, tired green eyes, a face that’s fine but never remarkable. I pull on my usual uniform black leggings, an oversized sweater, and the same scuffed boots I’ve worn since sophomore year. No one looks twice at me anyway. 

  Jack is beside her, of course. 

  He doesn’t even glance at me when I walk in. His eyes are locked on Jessica, like they always are. He’s leaning in, saying something low that makes her giggle. I should care. I should feel something anger, jealousy, anything but all I feel is a dull, familiar ache. 

  Three years together, and I’m still just background noise. 

  I pull out my sketchbook and flip to the latest page. My assignment “Capture raw emotion" is a half finished mess of jagged lines. It’s supposed to be a self-portrait, but all I see is a blur. 

  "Rachel." 

  I jump. Professor Langley is standing over me, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. "You’re falling behind." 

  I swallow. "I know. I’m trying." 

  He sighs, like he’s heard that a thousand times before. "Art isn’t about trying. It’s about feeling." 

  I stare at my hands. What if I don’t feel anything at all? 

  Jack finally acknowledges me when I slide into the booth across from him. "Hey," he says, mouth full of fries. "You okay? You look tired." 

  You didn’t notice me all morning, but now you care? 

  "I’m fine," I mutter, picking at my salad. 

  He shrugs and goes back to his phone. Jessica plops down next to him, her tray loaded with food she won’t eat. "Rach, you have to come out with us tonight. There’s this new bar—" 

  "I have work on my project," I lie. 

  She pouts. "Ugh, you’re always working. Live a little." 

  Jack snorts. "Yeah, Rach. When’s the last time you did something fun?" 

  I don’t answer. Fun? What’s fun about watching you stare at her all night? 

  I sit on my bed, sketchbook open, charcoal smudged across my fingers. The page is still blank. 

  What’s wrong with me? 

  I used to love drawing. Used to lose hours to it. Now, every stroke feels forced, like I’m just going through the motions. 

  My phone buzzes. A text from Jack: 

  "Going out with Jess and the guys. Don’t wait up." 

  I don’t reply. 

  Outside, as the wind howls. I press my forehead against the cold window and watch the trees sway. 

  There has to be more than this. 

  I drag myself to Thursday’s art class with the same heavy steps as always. The sky outside is still gray, but today it’s spitting rain tiny, half hearted droplets that don’t even bother to soak through my sweater. It feels fitting, like even the weather can’t commit to anything. 

  The studio is louder than usual when I walk in. Jessica is at the center of a buzzing group, her manicured fingers gesturing wildly. Jack hovers nearby, laughing too loudly at something she says. I slip past them unnoticed and sink into my usual seat in the back. 

  My sketchbook is still open to that same unfinished self-portrait. The lines are too harsh, the shadows all wrong. I press my charcoal to the page, but my hand hesitates. 

  What’s the point? 

  Before I can spiral further, the door swings open and the room falls silent. 

  Dean Whitmore strides in, her heels clicking against the concrete floor. Beside her stands a man I’ve never seen before. 

  "Everyone, listen up," the dean says, her voice sharp. "Professor Langley was in a car accident last night. He’s stable, but he’ll need time to recover." 

  A murmur ripples through the class. Jessica gasps, clutching her chest like this is a tragedy meant just for her. Jack pats her shoulder, his face twisted in fake concern. 

  I should feel something sympathy, worry but all I can think is: Now who’s going to tell me my art is empty? 

  The dean gestures to the stranger beside her. "This is Mr. Laurent. He’ll be your substitute instructor for the remainder of the semester." 

  And that’s when I finally look at him. 

  Jerome Laurent is not what I expected. 

  Young too young to be a professor, maybe late twenties with tousled dark hair and a sharp jaw shadowed by stubble. He’s dressed in all black: fitted slacks, a rolled sleeve button down, boots that look like they’ve seen more than just a classroom. 

  But it’s his eyes that catch me. 

  Pale, piercing. Almost gold in the dim studio light. They sweep over the class, assessing, predatory, like he’s not just looking at us he’s hunting for something. 

  Then, for the briefest second, those eyes lock onto mine. 

  My breath stutters. 

  A beat. A flicker of something curiosity? before he looks away. 

  The dean prattles on about professionalism and expectations, but I don’t hear a word. My skin feels too tight. My fingers twitch against my sketchbook. 

  Why can’t I look away from him? 

  When the dean leaves, Jerome no, Mr. Laurent leans against the edge of the demo table. His voice is low, rough around the edges, like he’s more used to growling than speaking. 

  "Langley left notes on your current project. ‘Raw emotion.’" He scoffs, flipping through the syllabus. "Boring." 

  Jessica giggles, leaning forward. "So what’s our assignment, Professor?" 

  He doesn’t even glance at her. "You’re artists. Act like it." He tosses the syllabus aside. "Draw what consumes you. What keeps you up at night. I don’t want pretty I want real." 

  A challenge. A dare. 

  The class erupts in chatter, but I’m frozen. For the first time in months, my fingers itch for the charcoal. 

  Then his gaze lands on me again. 

  Show me, his eyes seem to say. 

  And for the first time in forever, I want to.