Julian is still a little flustered by the unexpected interruption, his mind lingering on the quiet moments he had just shared with Grace.
"I gotta get going now. Have a great day, Professor… Lenter…" Grace says quickly, her voice laced with an unease he can't quite place.
She walks briskly towards the door, her steps sharp and hurried.
Before Julian can respond, Grace opens the door, and that's when she comes face-to-face with Professor Lena. The contrast between the two women is immediately striking.
Grace stands in her red cardigan, a simple white t-shirt beneath it, black straight pants hugging her legs. Her posture is casual yet slightly stiff, as if still adjusting to the awkwardness of their encounter.
In contrast, Lena stands framed by the doorway, wearing a sunflower yellow short dress that practically glows in the warm light. Her demeanor feels meticulously crafted, as if every movement and expression is carefully curated. There's a sense of being overly polished—too composed, too confident, as if she's always on display. Her appearance, too, seems overly crafted, like someone who spends hours curating the exact image they want the world to see.
"Hello," Grace greets with a quick nod, her voice cool and controlled, before she slips past Lena, heading out into the hall without another word.
Lena watches Grace leave, her eyes lingering on the retreating figure. Then, her gaze turns back to Julian, a question flickering in her expression. There's something different about the atmosphere—this isn't just the typical student-professor dynamic.
Julian's eyes follow Grace's retreating form down the hallway, his thoughts trailing after her. His mind is racing, but it's hard to focus on anything else.
What was she trying to say?
But Grace is gone.
Finally, he shifts his attention back to Lena, who is still standing in the doorway.
"Professor Lena," he says, his voice quieter than he expects.
The silence stretches between them for a moment, thick with unspoken thoughts.
Lena is the one to break it, her smile widening mischievously, almost like a silent question is hovering in the air.
"I brought you this!" she exclaims, holding up a small pastry box as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
She strides into the room, her movements fluid and graceful.
"I was just thinking of you while I was out for brunch and decided to grab a few pastries. You know, this place is so popular..." Lena continues to chat as she places the box down on the desk in front of Julian.
But Julian barely hears her. His thoughts are elsewhere, still caught on Grace, on the tension he feels hanging in the air, the unfinished words Grace almost said, the way she seemed to be holding something back.
What was it? What was Grace going to say?
His mind won't settle, and even as Lena continues speaking, Julian can't quite focus on anything but the fleeting feeling of Grace's presence in the room, and the unsettling thought that she was going to say something important—something he might have missed.
What was it, exactly?
Grace hops onto the bus and claims the lone seat at the front, the one with the best view. She leans her head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city stretch out as the bus pulls away from the stop. A warm summer breeze sweeps through the open window, tousling her hair. The heat of the day lingers, but the rush of wind feels like a welcome relief. She closes her eyes, letting the perfect summer wind wash over her skin, momentarily losing herself in the sensation.
A flash of memory interrupts the calm. The scene at Julian's professor's office replays in her mind. The way he'd walked over to the coffee machine with that easy confidence, his every move casual and familiar. Meanwhile, Grace had sat stiffly on the sofa, too aware of her discomfort in the sterile, academic space. The conversation had been brief, awkward even, and just as it started to fizzle, a third person had entered the room—a woman, sharp-eyed and commanding. Grace, eager to escape, had left almost in a rush, her heart pounding with the sudden shift in atmosphere.
She can still hear the woman's voice, soft and sugary, the kind that makes every word sound like honey. But it's the way the woman had looked at her—just a glance, quick but loaded—that sticks with Grace. It's like a sliver of something she doesn't quite understand.
She's probably a young professor, just like Julian, Grace thinks, the thought slipping through her mind almost carelessly.
She lets it settle, taking the information in, then something else crosses her thoughts.
She looked... constrained for a second when she saw me.
A small smile tugs at the corner of Grace's lips, as the irony of the moment bubbles up.
I wonder if she thought something was going on between Julian and me. How funny would that be?
It's ridiculous, really. But the idea amuses her. Just a little bit.
Hello! That man, Professor Julian Lenter, didn't even give me his phone number! So no worries!
Grace mutters the words under her breath, trying to shake off the odd interaction with the professor. She rolls her eyes slightly, dismissing the thought as her phone vibrates in her hand. The buzzing grows louder, persistent, until it's impossible to ignore. It's her messenger app, lighting up with notifications. She opens it, half-expecting yet another endless string of messages.
The new group chat has been created, and the name flashes across the screen: Classmates of the History of Fashion Design.
Here we go again, she thinks with a resigned sigh.
She's tired of this. The group chats. The constant bombardment of notifications. She doesn't even like group chats in the first place—too much chatter about things she doesn't care about, too many conversations that don't really concern her.
Grace scrolls through the messages, half-heartedly trying to keep up.
There are already thirty-five messages. She clicks on the chat, her fingers moving mechanically, skimming through the flood of text. Her face shifts from one of mild irritation to a more neutral expression as she reads.
Okay, I see now…
The messages pop up one after another, casual and full of enthusiasm.
Grace's brow furrows just slightly as she reads the last message. She can't help but roll her eyes again, though her face is mostly neutral now, as she wonders why everyone is suddenly so eager to make a spectacle out of everything.
Celebrating the opening of a new class?
It seems a bit much.
Whatever, she thinks, putting her phone down for a moment. Let them have their fun. It's not like I'm going to get involved.
The group chat is lively, but it's mostly the girls talking. The guys only chime in here and there, throwing in the occasional,
Now the voting begins, a neat list of available dates scrolling across the screen, inviting everyone to join the celebration.
Grace knows she's supposed to vote—at least tap something—but right now, she just doesn't feel like it. With a sigh, she flicks the screen off, watching as her iPhone slips into darkness with a soft click.
Grace lets out a silent scoff, the corner of her lips curling up in a sarcastic smirk.
I've never even heard of such a thing…
It's so transparent, really. They aren't celebrating anything. They just want an excuse to meet Julian outside of campus. And she—she absolutely does not want to go.
She can't explain it, not exactly. It's more than just disinterest. There's a twisted feeling coiling somewhere deep inside her, something uncomfortable and raw.
The grimace flickers across her face before she catches it, forcing herself to relax, to breathe. The fresh spring air rushes in through the open window, brushing against her skin like a soft reminder to stay calm.
Let's not be so harsh, she tells herself. Maybe they just want to build good relationships... make some memories.
Grace tries to bury the sharp edge of sarcasm she knows too well, tries to lean into something softer, more generous.
And yet, the discomfort lingers.
Why do I have to see him... with other people?
The thought sneaks in quietly, but once it's there, it sticks. Heavy and undeniable.
But then, another thought crosses her mind, half in defiance, half in weary resignation.
Yeah, there's no reason to see him one-on-one either... I mean, I don't even need to see him at all. Just transfer the money to his bank account and it's over.
Pushing away the unwanted, unexplainable sarcasm bubbling up inside her, Grace leans back against the bus seat and closes her eyes for a moment.
The perfect summer breeze dances through the slightly cracked window, brushing her hair with a tender touch. She lets herself focus on it instead—the simple, wordless joy of the season—and gently steers her heart back to where it belongs: gratitude.
Right... God sent me a secret donor to support my tuition...
The sarcastic bitterness melts away instantly, like morning frost under the sun. A wave of thankfulness floods through her chest, warm and overwhelming.
What was I even doing, feeling irritated about a group chat and a casual dinner plan when I have so much more to be grateful for.