THE ART OF SUFFERING

They say writing essays makes you smarter.

I say writing essays makes you question every life choice that brought you to this point, including why your English teacher thinks poetry analysis is the key to unlocking the universe.

Like really?

Last night, I sat hunched over my desk, glaring at my crumpled piece of notebook paper like it owed me money.

My topic?

A stupid plum blossom poem that apparently symbolizes life’s endurance. Or maybe death. Honestly, the whole thing could’ve been written by a pretentious fortune cookie, and I’d still have to write about it.

I hated poetry.

Not the kind that carved its way into your chest, forcing you to feel something real—no, that kind I could respect.

I hated this kind. The kind that was peeled apart under fluorescent lights, dissected and drained of all beauty until it lay limp and meaningless. Until it became nothing more than a rigid formula.

And I especially hated it when Cristiano Wright was the one grading my suffering.

Last night, I had sat at my desk, notebook open, mind empty.

The words refused to come.

I chewed on my pen cap, glared at the poem in front of me, and willed it to make sense—to tell me what it wanted, to whisper some hidden truth that I could shape into an acceptable analysis.

But my brain had offered me nothing.

From across the room, Mia had watched my slow descent into madness. She lay sprawled on my bed, scrolling through her phone without a care in the world.

“You know, this would be a lot easier if you just… stopped overthinking.”

I shot her a glare. “Oh, genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”

She smirked. “Look, it’s a plum blossom. It blooms in the cold. It’s a metaphor for resilience. End of story.”

I groaned, rubbing my temples. “It’s never that simple with Wright. He doesn’t want obvious. He wants depth. Emotion. The meaning beneath the meaning.”

Mia made a dramatic gagging noise. “So, basically, he wants you to suffer.”

I exhaled sharply. Exactly.

And the worst part? He was winning.

THE HOUR OF EXECUTION

The next morning, I walked into class with all the enthusiasm of a condemned prisoner.

The room buzzed with quiet conversations, papers shuffling, students murmuring to each other—pretending they weren’t all dreading the inevitable.

And at the front of the room, sitting with unshakable composure, was him.

Cristiano Wright.

His sleeves were rolled up, his glasses perched low on his nose as he flipped through a stack of essays with meticulous precision. The slow, deliberate tap of his fingers against the desk filled the silence. Rhythmic. Inevitable. Counting down.

I could already feel his eyes on me.

Pinning. Calculating.

I swallowed hard. Act normal. Don’t look affected.

“Alina.”

His voice—low, firm, unquestionably in control—cut through the air like a blade.

I forced my spine straight. “Professor.”

“You have your analysis?”

I did. Unfortunately.

With the grace of someone handing over their own death sentence, I placed my paper on his desk.

His fingers brushed mine—barely, accidently—but even that fleeting touch sent a ripple through me.

A sharp, unwanted thrill.

I jerked my hand back too fast, like I’d been burned.

He didn’t react. Didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

But I felt it.

And I knew he did too.

Once the essays were collected, the real torment began.

His gaze swept across the room, deliberate and slow, before landing on me with unnerving precision.

“Alina,” he said, tone almost… amused. “Since you had such unique insights yesterday, why don’t you begin today’s discussion?”

Oh, you sadistic bastard.

The air thickened.

Students turned, barely concealing their smirks.

I clenched my jaw. This was punishment.

I swallowed. My brain scrambled for something—anything—to say.

“…Stubbornness?”

Silence.

His brows lifted just slightly.

And then, slow and deliberate, he repeated, "Stubbornness."

The way he said it—it wasn’t a question. It wasn’t mocking.

It was something worse.

It was amusement.

My stomach twisted.

A few students snickered.

I wanted to cease existing immediately.

But then—something unexpected.

“Not entirely incorrect,” he murmured, turning to the board.

He didn’t laugh at me. Didn’t dismiss me.

Instead, he considered my words.

And for some stupid, ridiculous reason, that mattered.

Behind me, Mia nudged my back. “See? He doesn’t totally hate you.”

I shot her a glare. But beneath the humiliation, a small, traitorous part of me felt… seen.

The bell rang, and I bolted.

Almost.

“Alina Hart.”

His voice—low, steady, undeniably commanding—halted me mid-step.

I turned, heart hammering. “Yes, Professor?”

He gestured toward his desk. “A word.”

I was so dead.

The classroom emptied, leaving only the two of us. The silence stretched, heavy and charged, like a string pulled too tight.

He leaned back against his desk, arms folded. My essay sat in front of him, marked, judged.

“You have a habit of deflecting,” he observed.

I crossed my arms. “I do not.”

His lips twitched. “You wrote, and I quote, ‘Poetry is just nature showing off and people overthinking it.’”

Oh.

Oh.

I had actually written that.

My soul left my body.

“Creative,” he continued, too calm, too knowing. “But lazy.”

I bristled. “I’m not lazy.”

“Then prove it.”

He slid the paper toward me. “Rewrite it. Properly.”

I gaped at him. “Are you serious?”

“Tomorrow,” he said, voice firm. “Show me what you’re actually capable of.”

He didn’t ask.

He expected.

And the worst part?

I wanted to prove him wrong.

That evening, as I packed my books, something slipped out—a small, folded note.

My pulse skidded.

Crisp handwriting. Sharp. Precise.

Meet me in the library after class. I think you need to work hard for it.—C.W.

My heart stopped.

Mia, peering over my shoulder, gasped dramatically. “IS THAT A LOVE NOTE?”

I shoved it against my chest. “Shut up.”

She snatched it from my hands before I could stop her, eyes wide as she read.

Then, she grinned.

“Ohhh. Alina’s got a date with Mr. Intellectual.”

“IT’S NOT A DATE.”

She smirked. “Then why do you look like you’re about to have a stroke?”

I hated her.

But I hated the way my stomach tightened even more.

THE LIBRARY, A CRIME SCENE WAITING TO HAPPEN

I shouldn’t have come.

And yet, there I was.

Cristiano Wright was already there, seated at a secluded table, flipping through a book with infuriating calmness.

The moment I approached, he closed it.

"You’re late."

I scowled. "I had second thoughts about coming."

He smirked. "Yet here you are."

I hated that he was right.

I dropped my bag onto the table. “So? What’s this about?”

His gaze flickered to my essay. “I want to see you try.”

I crossed my arms. “I did try.”

“No,” he said, too soft, too steady. “You avoided.”

Something inside me twisted.

"You think I’m lazy," I muttered.

His gaze didn’t waver. "I think you’re afraid to be wrong."

The words hit too deep.

I exhaled sharply, grabbing a pen.

Fine.

Let’s play your game, Cristiano Wright.