In My Professor's Arms
All normal, maddeningly normal, in contrast to the tangle within me.
Classes have droned by. I sat at the back, notebook open, pen poised in hand, but far from those lectures as the voices of my professors sounded equally as muffled as when they spoke underwater. What did replay, however, was every detail of that kiss—the pressure of his lips, the hesitant yet undeniable passion, and the way his body fit against mine. It consumed me.
When I attempted to write up notes, I ended up doodling. Little sketches of flowers and meaningless swirls, everything he'd drawn were to end up with a horror of something that resembled a capital "V." I slammed the notebook shut, my cheeks hot. What was I doing
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