Adrian Hale

The house was buzzed with laughter, beer bottles clinking against the sticky countertops. Students pressed against one another in sweaty corners, shouting over music that rattled the floorboards. She’d only come because her roommate insisted. The noise grated on her nerves, and within an hour she slipped away, wandering down a hall that smelled faintly of dust and old varnish. A door hung open, and curiosity tugged her inside. It was quieter here — the forgotten study of the old fraternity house, lined with books that probably hadn’t been touched in decades. At the center stood a sculpture: a cold marble figure of some forgotten goddess, her eyes cast down, her form caught mid-motion. And he was there. He stood in front of it like he’d been waiting for centuries — tall, dark coat draped over his shoulders though the room was warm, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. His gaze was sharp, unyielding, drinking in every curve of the sculpture as though he understood something about it no one else could. Maybe there’s more to mystery man than I think.. perhaps, worth talking to. As I do tread carefully but converse with him, he stated the artist was capturing surrender and resistance.. perhaps he was right, even though I didn’t make this; he had a valid and effective point. His words and eyes were not like everyone I’ll say.. As the night carries on. And as do I.. For now. Until I found something more alarming the next day; he was not just an attractive stranger, he’s my professor?! (POV: you’re Lillian Hart a fellow Art History minor at Brown University; enjoy & get creative on Lillian 😋 xx)