Save Me From My Professor!

Mondays annoy me. I detest them so much that I could compile a full essay on why they should be outlawed, but nobody would read it because, guess what?

Everyone else hates Mondays too. So, instead, we just wallow in the miserable fact that the weekend has officially ended and we’re back to being slaves to the system. Education system! And who better to remind me of this sad truth than the biggest authority figure in my life right now?

Professor Cristiano Wright!

I swear, the man was made to ruin mornings. 

I entered into class, late as usual, dragging my feet with all the enthusiasm of someone who’s just been told they’re going to spend the next hour reading Shakespeare in an ancient, dead language.

I slide into my seat in the back corner of the room, trying to be as invisible as possible.

I mean, who really wants to start the day with a lecture on some random 14th-century poet, right?

Not me.

I’m just here to survive, barely scrape by, and then go home to binge-watch anything that doesn’t involve Shakespeare or poetry or, God forbid, Cristiano Wright.

“Miss Alina,” Professor Wright's voice breaks into my half-sleep, half-wake self and I feel my heart rate spike. Ugh. Here we go.... Again!  

His gaze is ice cold, and I know exactly what’s coming next. He’s got that look on his face—the one he reserves for students who are definitely not paying attention but are too terrified to admit it. 

“Your thoughts on today’s reading?” he asks, but it’s not a suggestion. It’s a command. The kind of question you get from someone who isn’t interested in your answer but is testing your ability to survive a spontaneous inquisition. The kind of teacher who doesn’t understand that the fact that I’m awake in his class at all is already a major accomplishment.

The words I was going to say in response are evaporating like a July popsicle as I look up to him. So, "Um..." My classmates are staring at me, their gazes seeming to pierce into my brain.. I turn to look at the text on the board—a line from the poem that looks as foreign to me as if it had been written in Klingon. 

"The plum blossoms wait for spring, enduring the frost in silence." 

Okay, great, very deep. What does that even mean? 

“Uh, yeah, the poet is, like, really into waiting for spring, you know? Waiting for life to get better or whatever.” I feel my voice grow weaker with every word. I don’t know why I open my mouth sometimes, it’s like I have a chronic condition.  

Professor Wright stares at me, and I can almost hear the gears in his brain grinding to a halt. “That’s it?” His voice is cool, like he’s unimpressed, which is honestly pretty standard for him.  

I swallow. “I mean… I’m sure there’s more to it, but…” I trail off, unsure of how to salvage this trainwreck.  

He’s going to eat me alive.

The whole room is waiting for him to deliver the finishing blow. Alina, what a disappointment! Your intellect is as barren as the frost you love to romanticize—I’m sure that’s what he’s thinking, but he’s too dignified to say it out loud. 

That's a relief! Really!

He raised an eyebrow, his fingers delicately tapping against the book in his hands like he’s making some kind of point.

“Interesting interpretation. Perhaps you’d care to elaborate tomorrow? You’re free to submit your thoughts in an essay format by then. No more 'life gets better' answers.”

And just like that, he’s moved on, delivering some profound insight that makes me want to throw up.

Utterly humiliated, I lean back in my chair. I can just hear my classmates criticizing me for my ignorance of a poem written before I was even born as they silently chuckle behind my back.

I continue to act as if I am paying attention in class, nodding along when it is appropriate to do so, but secretly plotting my revenge. I can’t be the only one who wants to destroy him, right? Or at least get back at him for making me look like a moron in front of my classmates.

But, alas! I cannot do anything to him!

When the bell rings, I bolt out of my seat like someone who’s just narrowly avoided death. Mia, my best friend, catches up to me in the hallway, her voice practically full with excitement.  

“You were amazing today!” she continues, her eyes shining with what I can only guess is genuine admiration. 

“What?” I snap, too tired to pretend I’m thankful for her praise. “I looked like an idiot." 

“Oh, come on, he didn’t totally tear you apart,” she maintains her grinning  “Besides, who else would have the guts to answer him like that?”  

I narrow my eyes at her. “Please, I was just trying not to get buried alive under that man’s intellectual superiority complex." 

Mia chuckles, shoving me gently with her elbow. “You’re such a drama queen. Honestly, though, I think he likes you.”  

I freeze, mid-step. “What?”  

“Yeah, you know, like how he always looks at you a little longer than everyone else?” she adds, eyes shining with what I’m certain is a conspiracy theory in the making.  

“Please.” I scoff, waving her off. “He’s probably just disappointed that I haven’t developed the intellectual capacity to truly understand a single thing he says.”  

Mia is unfazed. “I’m serious. He’s got this whole thing for you. Can’t you feel the tension in the air whenever he talks to you?”

Tension? I feel nothing but the desperate need to run far, far away from his cold, judgmental gaze. But, of course, I’m not going to admit that to Mei Fang. She has this habit of turning everything into some kind of weird romantic drama, like we’re living in a K-drama. 

“I’m telling you, Mia, you’re reading way too much into this,” I mutter, pushing through the crowd to get to my next class. “He’s just an another teacher. He’s not interested in me, more like just interested in making my life miserable." 

But deep down, something about the way he always looks at me makes my stomach churn. It's not the usual teacher-student stare—there’s something more about it. Like he's trying to figure me out or maybe… read me. And I don’t know how to feel about that.  

After a painfully boring lecture on geometry—because obviously, being tortured by poetry isn’t enough—I find myself standing outside Professor Wright's office. My heart is racing, palms sweaty, because I know what’s coming next.  

The essay.  

Why do I even bother?

I knock on the door, already regretting every decision I’ve ever made that led me to this moment. 

"Come in." And there he was Mr. Wright.

“Miss Alina,” he says, his voice a little too smooth for my liking. “I believe you’ve thought about the essay?"  

I just stare at him, trying to control the urge to punch him in the gut. “I’ve thought about it, yeah. Mostly about how much I don’t want to write your stupid essay." 

He raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Is that so? Well, then, I suppose I’ll have to assign you a second essay on how to properly interpret poetry and how to behave infront your teacher!" 

I grit my teeth. “Fine. But you’re making me hate poetry, you know that?" 

“You can think that” he says with a shrug, his gaze softening ever so slightly. “You need to hate something before you can truly understand it.”  

Seriously? This guy is insufferable.  

But instead of snapping back, I find myself standing there, quiet for a moment, unsure of how to respond.

There’s a shift in the air, and for the first time today, I realize something. Despite all the frustration, all the sarcastic remarks I throw his way, there’s something compelling about him. Like I can’t quite figure him out. 

And that, my friend, is the most dangerous thing of all.