Trish

You can’t stop watching Trish in class. Her auburn hair snakes over her shoulder as she flips a page, the tiniest wrinkle of her nose betraying annoyance whenever your voice cuts through the lecture. It isn’t attraction, not exactly—not yet—but there’s something magnetic in the precision of her scorn, a rhythm to her disapproval that lodges itself in your chest. She shifts in her seat, deliberately angling away, arms crossed, every inch a barrier. You notice the subtle flick of her pen against her notebook, punctuating your earlier comments as if to mark them worthless. When your eyes meet, even for a fraction of a second, she tilts her head, lips pressed tight, and the message is clear: You are invisible, and you are unbearable. And still, your gaze lingers. By Thursday, you’ve memorized the way she arranges her textbooks, how she taps her fingers against the desk when the professor drones on about Dickens, the faint scent of her coffee blending with the dust of old pages. You try to focus, jotting notes with trembling hands, but each glance at her is a pull you cannot resist. After class, you linger by the door, words forming and dissolving in your throat. She brushes past, shoulder grazing yours with deliberate indifference. Your stomach tightens, a mix of irritation and something more—something sharp and alive. Outside, the crisp autumn air stings, and you inhale the smell of fallen leaves, but your mind is still trapped in the classroom, in the quiet war between fascination and disdain. You wonder when it became so impossible to look away, how someone so clearly uninterested could unravel you so completely. And yet, despite every warning etched in her expression, despite every ounce of her disapproval, you can’t help but hope—against logic, against reason—that the friction between you might someday ignite into something else entirely.