The First Meeting

I hate how much space he’s taken up in my brain. He’s like the unwanted roommate who just moved in, and now I’m stuck with him squatting in my head.

He’s settled in comfortably, more like too much comfortably, like he’s paying rent for a penthouse, though no one actually asked him to. And let’s be real—I didn’t give him the key, either.

It didn’t help that it was Saturday. Saturdays should come with a universal pass for being a lazy couch potato, binge-watching N*****x and pretending school doesn’t exist.

Instead, I was stuck in a never-ending loop of overthinking. My brain was running in circles, replaying every embarrassing moment that led me to this point. Seriously, if there was a way to file for mental bankruptcy, I’d be first in line.

I could’ve been napping. Or, you know, pretending to be productive. But no, instead I was trapped in my head, circling like a vulture waiting for my next mistake. And honestly?

I didn’t even want to think about Mr. Wright. I wanted to think about literally anything else. Like how the sky was the color of a sad bruise that day, or how Ethan’s sucks—yes, Ethan, my older brother—still didn’t match. But nope. Mr. Wright had to be the star of my mental show.

The guy’s like a mystery wrapped in a riddle inside a “don’t-look-at-me-I’m-busy” frown. And yeah, I know, he’s technically my teacher, but let’s be honest—he’s one of those individuals who has that aura. The kind where you can’t help but notice him, even when you’re pretending to ignore him.

It’s like he has some sort of magnetic pull that makes you want to roll your eyes and lean in at the same time. And I absolutely hate that. Because it means he knows how to see me. Really see me. And God, that’s dangerous.

I still remember the first time I met Mr. Wright was also a Monday, the kind of Monday that makes you question why humans ever invented school. The classroom smelled like dry-erase markers and desperation, with the collective energy of teenagers mourning the death of their weekend freedom. And then he walked in.

Mr. Wright—or “Chris” as I now unhappily call him—was everything you’d imagine a literature professor to look like if you ordered him from a strangely perfect catalog.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and annoyingly put together, he moved with this effortless elegance, like gravity itself had chosen to cut him a deal. His dark hair was just tidy enough to be intentional, and his veiny hands,that could easily feature in their own movie.

But it wasn’t just how he looked—it was the way he handled himself. He didn’t just walk into the room; he owned it. His gaze swept across us with quiet authority that subdued even the class clowns in the back row. And his voice? Low, steady, and painfully smooth, like a cello playing in a poorly lit café.

“Good morning, everyone,” he murmured, laying his leather satchel on the desk. “I’m Cristiano Wright. You can call me Mr. Wright. I’ll be your English teacher for this year and our classes will be held on Mondays.”

The room collectively sighed. Some of the girls actually gasped, as if he’d just announced he was a movie star in disguise. One of them whispered, “Is it even legal to look that good and be a teacher?”

I rolled my eyes, pretending I wasn’t mildly impressed.

As he started talking about his background—something about studying abroad and his “passion for literature”—the whispers around me grew louder.

“Do you think he’s single?”

“I heard he’s fluent in French also.”

“Can we just take a moment to appreciate those muscles?”

Seriously, it was like watching a room full of teenagers discovering hormones for the first time. I tuned most of it out, focusing instead on the way he wrote his name on the board.

His handwriting was neat but casual, like everything else about him. Even his chalk-dusted fingers managed to look purposeful, as if they had a Ph.D. in writing the word ‘Wright.’

And those hands! Something is different about them. I swear!

When he began his first lecture, the room fell into a trance. He wasn’t just talking about poetry; he was performing it. His hands moved gracefully as he gestured, his words weaving through metaphors like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. I could see why everyone was so captivated.

Everyone except me.

The last thing I recall was him stating something about Shakespeare’s sonnets. The warmth of the classroom and the steady rhythm of his voice made my eyelids drowsy.

One minute, I stood upright, pretending to take notes; the next, I was slumped over my notepad, absolutely out cold.

When I woke up, the room was silent—too quiet. I blinked, sleepy, and realized everyone was staring at me.

“Welcome back, Miss Hart,” Mr. Wright replied, his tone caustic but not unfriendly.

I froze. He was looking right at me, one eyebrow arched. His attitude wasn’t hostile, precisely, but it was obviously the “I see you, and I’m judging you” kind of look.

“Did you enjoy your peaceful nap?” he inquired, leaning casually against the desk.

The class broke into laughter. My face burnt hotter than the sun. “Uh, yeah. Sorry,” I muttered, trying to shrink into my seat.

“Glad to hear,” he said calmly. “I assume you’ll be ready to share your thoughts on the sonnet we just discussed?”

My brain short-circuited. “The... uh... the what?”

His lips twitched, just enough to suggest he was amused. “The sonnet. You know, the one we spent the last twenty minutes analyzing while you were... otherwise occupied.”

More laughter. Great. I was officially the class clown, and I hadn’t even tried.

“Maybe next time,” he said, his voice softer but no less pointed. “Let’s aim to stay awake, shall we?”

From that day on, I was on his radar.

Don’t get me wrong—I noticed him. How could I not? But after three years of dealing with the chaos of my so-called family, I was too exhausted to care.

While my classmates were busy falling in love with his tie, his voice, or whatever else they were obsessing over, I was battling a losing fight against sleep.

I guess, I am not normal as Mia said!

Oh, that’s not even the point now! I was not only on his radar but on his 24/7 radar. I guess!

It wasn’t the good kind of radar, either. It was like he’d decided I was a personal project, someone to fix or guide or whatever teachers tell themselves when they start giving unsolicited life advice.

Every class, he’d call on me out of nowhere. “Alina, what do you think the poet meant by ‘enduring the frost’?” Or, “Alina, care to explain the symbolism in this passage?” It was like he had some sixth sense for knowing when I wasn’t paying attention, which, let’s be honest, was most of the time the case.

To be fair, he wasn’t mean about it. He didn’t humiliate me or yell at me, but his calm, steady gaze had a way of making me feel like I’d disappointed him on some cosmic level. And the worst part? I couldn’t even hate him for it.

Because as much as I resented being his apparent “problem child,” I couldn’t deny he was... different. He didn’t talk down to us like most teachers. He didn’t sugarcoat things or rely on boring PowerPoint slides. He made you feel like your ideas mattered, even when they were wrong.

Not that I’d ever admit it out loud.

Sighing dramatically, I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow, wishing I could not think about him for at least five minutes. But then I remembered that he’d probably take that as a challenge. And I couldn’t let him win. Not again.

With a groan, I threw the covers off and kicked my feet over the side of the bed. “What am I even doing?” I muttered to the empty room, the echoes of my frustration bouncing off the walls.

You can’t just let someone into your space, even if it’s only mentally, and not have it mess with your head. And here he was—Mr. Wright—the human embodiment of every teenage girl’s complicated emotions rolled up into one package. He was impossible to ignore, which made him even more infuriating.

But deep down, I knew the truth. The worst part wasn’t that he noticed me. It was that I was starting to notice him back. And I had zero idea how to deal with that.

“Great,” I muttered to the ceiling. “Just what I needed.”

I reached for my phone to distract myself with an endless scroll through social media, but something told me this wasn’t going away anytime soon.

So, yeah, screw it. Maybe I’d just let it all unravel. Because I had the sinking feeling that the next time I saw Mr. Wright, he was going to make me wish I stayed in bed forever.