In the lecture hall, conversations overlapped across the rows in uneven waves, with the scraping of chairs and the low hum of students settling into rows.
Isla sat near the middle, her fingers gripping her pen too tightly, jaw locked as she tried to focus on the projector screen instead of the constant feeling that people were staring at her.
They had been staring since she walked into the hall.
It has been like that all morning, at the cafeteria where she had grabbed her breakfast, outside the dorms, in the hallway.
Everywhere she went, someone looked at her too long before whispering to whoever stood beside them.
The block party incident had once again become campus entertainment overnight.
Clips and photos had already spread through school blogs and anonymous students’ pages.
Everyone had something to say about “The psycho ballerina who snapped at RavenHurst Golden Quarterback.”
Isla could still hear the music from that night in fragments whenever she thought about it.
She could still feel the cold liquor soaking through her clothes.
She hears herself yelling at Liam in front of half the school.
Humiliation sat under her skin like something alive.
When the lecture hall doors opened, the reaction was immediate.
Whispers spread first, followed by a ripple of movement as heads turned towards the entrance.
“Is that Liam?”
“No way.”
“Why’s he here?”
Isla’s stomach tightened before she even looked back.
Liam Douglas walked into the hall, as if he belonged there.
His backpack hung lazily off one shoulder, a dark hoodie pushed halfway up his forearms, and a backward cap was in place.
Some girls visibly straightened in their seats, already pulling out their phones to record as he moved down the aisle.
Liam barely reacted to the attention.
Isla looked away, but not before noticing his eyes sweep across the room and then land on her.
And that was all it took for the whispers to increase; attention shifted entirely toward them.
Heat crawled up the back of her neck.
Her fingers tightened around the pen.
Liam walked down the steps and chose a seat two rows away from her.
Not close enough to speak to her.
Not far enough for her to pretend he wasn’t there.
But close enough that she could still see him clearly in her peripheral vision if she turned sideways, which she absolutely refused to do.
“Oops. This is kinda awkward.” The girl beside Isla leaned slightly toward her friend.
“Really awkward. The ballerina thinks she’s all that.”
They both laughed.
And embarrassment settled heavily into her chest, making her shoulders stiffen.
The professor entered seconds later, carrying a stack of papers under his arm.
The room went quiet.
He adjusted his glasses before looking over the lecture list in confusion.
“Liam Douglas?” Professor Bernnet’s gaze lifted.
Liam leaned back in his chair.
“Yes, Professor,” He said.
“Well, this is unexpected.”
“Good, unexpected, or bad, Professor?” Liam asked.
“That depends.” Professor Bernett said, his voice was calm.
“What exactly are you doing in my class? Are you lost, Mr. Douglas?” he asked.
A few people laughed.
Isla kept her eyes on her notebook.
Liam’s eyes glanced around the room and looked at Isla for a second before turning back to the professor.
“No, I’m not lost, Professor Bernett. I need an extra arts credit.” He answered.
Professor Bernett’s face scrunched up slightly.
“And you chose Art History?” He asked.
Liam shook his head once.
“My advisor said I needed something to boost my grade before football drags my GPA into the grave.” He rested one arm across the desk.
“Apparently, throwing footballs doesn’t count as cultural development.”
His response got a louder laugh from the room.
“Any problem, Professor?” One girl in the first row asked.
Professor Bennett narrowed his eyes.
“No problem, Miss Jovy.” He replied.
“I’m only concerned this class is about to record the highest attendance in RavenHurst history because of you, Liam Douglas.”
Liam pressed a hand dramatically against his chest.
“That hurts, Professor. I thought people came for your personality.”
The room burst into laughter again.
Even Professor Bennett chuckled before shaking his head.
“Just try not to be late for classes.”
“No promises, Professor,” Liam replied.
Another round of laughter followed as the professor finally turned back toward the projector.
Awareness of Liam sat at the edge of every thought.
She felt him there.
Not even intentionally doing anything, just existing in the same room, seemed to pull awareness towards him naturally.
It irritated her how easily she noticed him.
She stared at the projector while the professor spoke about modern contemporary movement, but her concentration came in broken pieces.
Every few seconds, her attention drifted to him.
To the lazy way he spun a pen between his fingers.
To the rhythmic tap of his pen against the desk.
To the fact that he barely took notes.
To the way he occasionally leaned forward in his seat when the professor mentioned something interesting, as if he was paying attention before slouching again.
To the girl beside him who spent more time staring at his face than at her laptop screen or the projector.
To a blonde girl behind him, who passed over her phone with a smile.
Liam glanced at the screen, grinned, typed, and then handed it back.
He said something that made her blush hard enough to tug her hair behind her ear.
His attention drifted to his phone as he typed away, a small smile tucking at his lips.
Typical.
Isla forced her gaze back at the projector.
But the problem wasn’t him.
The problem was herself.
Every time she looked at him, her mind replayed the party.
The noise.
His touch on her shoulder.
The spill.
The way panic had climbed her throat before she could stop it—the yelling.
Liam hadn’t technically done nothing wrong.
He didn’t deserve how she had exploded at him.
And the realization made things even worse for her.
The spill had been accidental.
He’d looked genuinely surprised when the drink splashed across her jacket.
But by then she’d already been overwhelmed, cornered by too much noise, too many people, too many memories clawing at her skin all night long until one stupid accident became the final crack.
She hated losing control like that.
Hated that something as stupid as alcohol spilling on her could drag her backward mentally.
Worst of all, she hated that he kept entering her thoughts at all.