Secrets, Distractions, Unspoken Tension

It’s been exactly 2 days since the “don’t underestimate yourself” bomb dropped, and I’m still trying to figure out if I’m upset or just mildly ashamed.

Honestly, I’d prefer to be angry, but something about the way Mr. Wright stated it made me feel like I’d just been seen—like I wasn’t the funny, sarcastic, rebellious girl I’ve carefully crafted. I was the girl underneath all of that, and I don’t know how I feel about that version of myself.

I slouched back in my chair, the edges of my textbook blurring as my mind wandered where it shouldn’t. Once upon a time—okay, maybe last year—I was the Alina Hart. Top of my class. Captain of the track team. Teachers’ favorite. Parents’ pride.

Now?

I’m just... here.

A “troublemaker.” A “distraction.” A problem to be fixed.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped being the golden girl and started being the complication nobody wanted to deal with. You know how fairy tales have princesses? Yeah, that’s not me anymore. I’m the dragon now. The fire-breathing, disaster-making beast they had to lock away in a boarding school.

Because when you’re not perfect, you’re expendable. And nothing burns quite like realizing you’ve been reduced to a footnote in your own story.

So here I am, stuck with this stupid mix of confusion and annoyance, trying to act like it doesn’t matter. But spoiler alert: It does. Every time I close my eyes, I hear his voice in my head—calm, serious, and just a little bit too knowing.

I hate it.

And yet, I’m walking into school today with my head held a little higher, because, let’s face it, I’m still holding onto that shred of pride that tells me I’m fine.

This is just some bizarre experiment I’m too smart to fall for. It’s all part of the game. The game being, of course, the complete emotional torture that Mr. Wright seems so good at administering without even trying.

The hallways are as loud and chaotic as usual—students yammering away like they’ve just discovered air-conditioning, backpacks slamming into lockers like they’re protesting their existence.

I dodge a group of freshmen who are talking about who’s “the hottest teacher” at the school (no prizes for guessing who’s at the top of their list), and head to my locker, where a suspiciously folded piece of paper sits tucked under my books.

What is it now? A love note? A ransom note? A please don’t make me give you a detention note?

I pull it out with a raised eyebrow, ready to tear it apart, but instead, I find it’s from none other than the guy himself—Mr. Wright. Of course it is. Who else would have the audacity to leave me notes at every turn like he’s running some weird emotional scavenger hunt?

I unfold the paper slowly, fully prepared for some cryptic, condescending thing like, “You can do better, Alina. Just believe in yourself.” But no, what I read instead feels like someone just kicked me in the gut.

“Alina,

You’re avoiding something, and I think you know it. There’s more to you than your sarcasm and clever quips. Don’t sell yourself short. “

I blink at the note, then blink again. “What. The. Hell.” Seriously? What am I, some kind of emotional puzzle that he thinks he can solve with a few words? Not gonna happen, buddy.

But that knot in my stomach? Yeah, it’s real. And I hate that.

Of course, I know who the note was from! But what is wrong with his handwriting?

Donno!

So, naturally, I throw the note in the nearest trash can like an absolute rebel. No one can accuse me of being soft, okay? Especially not some professor who thinks he knows my deepest secrets after some awkward interactions.

By the time I get to my next class, I’m feeling a little… off. And not in the “I-just-saw-my-ex-with-his-new-girlfriend” kind of way, but the “I-should-just-wear-a-bag-over-my-head-to-avoid-any-more-awkward-conversations” kind of way.

Of course, Mr. Wright walks in, as tall and painfully aware as ever, and my entire body goes into defensive mode. If I can just pretend like everything’s fine, maybe he’ll stop trying to read me like some poorly-written novel.

The issue is, I can’t pretend. Not when he stares at me like that—like he’s got me all figured out, like I’m just a topic to be examined and dissected. The last time he made such direct eye contact with me, I wanted to sink into the floor. What about today? Not today. I refuse to allow him to get under my skin again.

He takes his usual seat at the front of the room and begins rambling on about literary themes and subtext, but I’m not paying attention. My eyes are locked on him, watching how his glasses slip down his nose just enough for him to push them back up, how the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to reveal his forearms like he’s trying to prove some point about masculinity or… something. Honestly, I’m too busy being annoyed to fully appreciate it, but I have to admit, it’s hard to ignore.

“Alina.”

Oh, God. He’s looking at me. Great. I immediately tense up and cough into my hand, trying to cover the fact that I’ve been caught zoning out.

“Yeah?” I say, trying to seem nonchalant, like I’m not utterly panicked inside.

His eyes narrow just a little. “Care to contribute?”

I glance around the room, seeing everyone else appearing to be engrossed in the lesson. “Uh, sure. The response is—umm, literary subtext is about the hidden meaning of the text, right? But I’m sure you already knew that, Sir.”

Something shifted!

There’s a pause, then he smiles. Not a pleasant smile, more like a let-me-enjoy-watching-you-squirm smile.

“Correct, but I would’ve appreciated more effort, Alina. You have so much more potential than this. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Oh, here we go again. The “you’re-better-than-you-think” speech. I’ve heard it all before. Usually from people who don’t know me well enough to know that I really, really don’t need to be told I can do better.

But his words hit strangely tonight, like they’re targeted right at my core. And it’s annoying, okay? Because for some reason, I can’t shake the notion that maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

“Thanks, Sir,” I say with an exaggerated roll of my eyes. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

He doesn’t respond right away, just watches me for a beat too long. The class is awkwardly quiet, like everyone knows this is some weird power struggle and they’re all waiting for the next move.

Finally, he sighs, and there’s something in his eyes that nearly looks like… disappointment? Or is that just me projecting?

“Alina, stop zoning out in the class,” he says quietly, but there’s a steel edge to his voice that makes my stomach drop. “You’re not fooling anyone, least of all me.”

Ouch…

For a fleeting second, I’m back at the library. I can almost hear his voice again, like he’s still sitting across from me, calling me out on my defenses. I swallow hard, pushing the memory away.

But it’s already too late.

After class, I’m still fuming, but also way more introspective than I should be. Seriously, I did not need to have an emotional crisis in the middle of my lunch break.

But that’s where I am, sitting in the cafeteria with Mia, trying to shove a sandwich into my face while pretending I’m not thinking about Mr. Wright and his weird, cryptic notes.

“Dude, what’s up with you today?” Mia asks, eyeing me like I’m some kind of science experiment.

“I’m fine,” I snap, more sharply than I meant. “It’s just… school stuff.”

“You sure? Because you look like you just saw a ghost, and that ghost is Mr. Wright.”

I almost choke on my sandwich. “What? I do not look like that.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Okay, so you’re definitely not obsessing over him then?”

“I’m not,” I lie through my teeth, slamming my tray down a little too forcefully. “It’s not like that.”

Mia leans in, clearly enjoying this more than she should. “Right, and that’s why you’ve been sulking all day and muttering about resilience under your breath like you’re in a weird self-help seminar.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, because, of course, she’s right. I’ve been muttering “resilience” like it’s some kind of mantra I’ve just discovered and now I can’t stop saying it.

But Mia’s got a point. I am distracted. And I’m not just distracted by homework. I’m distracted by the fact that I don’t really know how to deal with Wright anymore.

Every time I think I’m done with him, he just… keeps showing up. Whether it’s in my thoughts or in the form of his infuriatingly calm voice, I can’t escape him.

“You need to talk to Ethan if you don’t wanna talk to me,” Mia says, suddenly serious. “Maybe he knows what’s going on with you and maybe he can help?”

I snort. “Ethan, my dear brother, is about as useful as a rock when it comes to advice.”

But Mia’s right. I need to talk to Ethan, even if he’s going to annoy the hell out of me with his patience and his “life lessons.”

As I make my way home that day, I replay the conversation with Wright in my mind. Something is shifting inside me—something I’m not ready to admit.

And I hate it. I hate that he’s making me question everything. But I also hate that part of me kind of… likes it.

By the time I get to the hostel, I’m almost ready to explode. This whole situation is a powder keg, and I’m the fuse. What’s going to happen next?