4. Aurora
AURORA
Someone’s watching me.
Again.
I cross one leg over the other, settle back in my seat, and spin my pen between my fingers, pretending to hang on every word Professor Williams drones on from the front of the hall. My notebook’s open in front of me, but my notes stopped making sense about ten minutes ago.
Truth is, I haven’t heard a thing he’s said in the last ten minutes.
Mostly because I can’t tune out the whispering behind me.
The girls in the second row have been at it since class started, and somehow they think I can’t hear my own name tangled in what’s coming out of their mouths, but I hear it all.
Constantly.
Doesn’t matter where I am. On campus. At parties. Even in class.
It never ends.
People haven’t stopped talking about my breakup with Chase. Turns out, when you smash a bottle of whiskey in front of a house full of people, word travels fast about how ‘crazy’ you are.
I cross my legs, smooth my skirt, and sit up a little straighter, refusing to give them even a flicker of satisfaction. My chin lifts and I keep my eyes on the whiteboard, not looking back. Not even when another hushed giggle slips out behind me.
I didn’t plan to lose my shit that day in Westbrook. Didn’t plan to snap. But there I was, standing in that godawful bedroom, staring at the tangled sheets he’d just rolled around in with another girl while he shrugged it off like it meant nothing.
Like I meant nothing.
And everything I’d been holding in spilled out in front of everyone. Now I have to relive it every time someone decides to whisper about it behind my back.
He used to tell me he couldn’t imagine his life without me. He begged me to follow him to Westbrook, and when I said I needed to go to Colton U—when I tried to give us both an easy out—he wouldn’t let me go. Said long distance would be worth it. He kissed me and promised we’d make it work.
I should’ve ended it right then. Should’ve cut my losses and saved myself the wreckage, the humiliation, the pain of standing in that doorway, watching him with another girl on our anniversary, realizing I’d been replaced a long time ago.
Another whisper cuts through the row behind me, a little too loud. This time I don’t bother pretending I didn’t hear it. I turn in my seat and meet their eyes, arching a brow.
Their faces shift instantly, the color draining from their cheeks when they realize I caught it. They drop their gazes to their notebooks, suddenly very interested in whatever they’re scribbling.
I turn back around and let out a slow breath.
I waited two years to get into this class. I’m not letting anything else get in the way of that.
Every semester I sat at my laptop, finger hovering over the refresh button, hoping someone would finally drop or graduate and leave just one seat open. Two years of checking. Two years of telling myself it would be worth it once I got in.
Now I’m finally here, sitting in the seat I spent forever chasing, and I can’t even focus. I thought it would feel different. Like something would finally click into place.
Instead, I’m just… here. Staring at the blank page in front of me, with a restless energy prickling under my skin.
“How many of you believe you’re in control of who you are? Your habits, your relationships, the way you handle stress?”
A few hands go up around me.
My pen stills as I watch him move, noticing how the rest of the class leans in, drawn to the sound of his voice.
I remember the first time I saw him outside this same building, coffee in hand, tapping his foot like he couldn’t stand still.
He was midconversation with another professor, and all I could focus on was how intently he was listening.
Not just nodding along, but really listening, his head tipped slightly, his brows pulled together.
Now he’s at the front of the room, talking about survival and childhood, and I keep catching myself noticing things I shouldn’t care about. The way he scratches the back of his head with his pencil. The way his whole face lights up when he starts talking about psychology.
He nods, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Interesting. Most people think personality is just… preference. That you choose the person you become. But what if I told you the roots run much deeper?”
He leans against the edge of his desk. “Research shows that a lot of what we consider personality is actually adaptation. Not conscious choice, but learned responses. We tend to underestimate how much our earliest environments shape our adult patterns.”
For a second, I forget about the whispers behind me.
All I can think about is what he just said.
What about the pieces I never got? The half of my story no one ever told me? What about the people who grow up filling in the blanks?
If all you have are questions nobody answered, is that supposed to be enough?
Are you still real… or just a stand-in for the life you were supposed to have?
He pauses, his blue eyes sweeping the room, and for one uncomfortable heartbeat it feels like they land right on me.
“We inherit more than genes,” he continues. “We inherit expectations. Roles. Rules we never agreed to but follow anyway. And unless we take a hard look at what shaped us, we tend to repeat it. Not necessarily out of choice, but out of familiarity.”
My fingers tighten around my pen, my stomach twisting as every word digs under my skin.
My mom was always good at swallowing her feelings and acting like nothing ever got to her. She always said looking back was pointless. Every time I asked questions, she shut it down and told me not to dredge things up. Is this what I’ve inherited?
It makes sense, I guess, that I walked out of Chase’s place without so much as a glance back. That I blocked his number and moved on.
Maybe I’m more like her than I ever wanted to admit.
But sometimes I wonder if there are other ways I turned out, too. Things I haven’t figured out yet. The thought makes me glance up—just for a second—toward the front of the room before my eyes drop back to the blank page.
The minute class ends, everyone scrambles to pack up. I close my notebook and laptop and slide them into my bag. From the corner of my eye, I catch a group of guys staring at me. One of them elbows the other, laughing under his breath.
I know exactly what they’re talking about. What they’re thinking.
I don’t bother hiding the way I look back at them, waiting for one of them to have the balls to actually meet my eyes. Only one does. He scoffs and mutters, “Crazy bitch,” right before they all start laughing again, loud enough to make sure I heard.
I roll my eyes and toss my hair over my shoulder.
Everyone else is already halfway out the door, but I stay where I am until the room empties.
When the last few stragglers disappear into the hallway and the door swings shut behind them, I finally push back my chair and head down the steps, my heart thudding harder with every row I pass.
He’s bent over the desk, sorting through a stack of papers. His tie’s loosened slightly, the top button of his shirt undone.
I don’t even realize I’m just standing there watching him until he says, “Forget something?”
My mouth goes dry and I shake my head. “No, I just…”
He glances up, one brow lifting slightly. “You have a question.”
“Yeah. I mean… sort of.”
What are you doing, Aurora? I clear my throat, shaking my head. “Um. Sorry. This is probably weird.”
He tilts his head a little, watching me, waiting for me to continue.
“Earlier, you said people don’t really choose who they become. That a lot of it is stuff you pick up from the environment you grew up in.” I swallow, forcing the words out. “What if you don’t know all of that, though? Like… where you come from. Or the full story behind it. Does that mess you up?”
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he sets the papers aside and leans back against the desk, folding his arms across his chest.
“Not necessarily,” he says after a beat. “It just makes things different. Missing pieces of your story doesn’t mean you’re missing who you are.” He pauses, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. “Sometimes it just means you had to figure it out on your own.”
I nod, my gaze drifting down to the photo on his desk. A little boy, maybe five or six, caught mid-laugh with dirt on his jeans and a scab on his knee, his blond hair sticking up in every direction like he’d been running around outside all day.
“That’s Caleb,” Professor Williams says when he notices where I’m looking. I glance up, and his lips lift into a smile. “He turned five last month. Doesn’t sit still for more than five minutes.”
I press my lips together, trying to smile back, even though it feels a little forced. “He looks happy.”
“He is,” he says with a laugh, shaking his head. “Between me and his mom, the kid’s pretty spoiled.”
He glances back at the photo, and something tight shifts in my chest. The look in his eyes is so easy it almost catches me off guard, like loving his kid is the most normal thing in the world.
For a second, I wonder what that would feel like.
To have that kind of steady presence in my life. To have someone talk about you like that. Someone who knows your birthday without checking a calendar. Someone who keeps a picture of you on their desk just because they want to see your face during the day.
He reaches for a pen, and his sleeve rides up just enough for me to notice the fitness watch on his wrist. I almost ignore it, but my mouth moves before my brain can stop it.
“Do you run?”
He follows my gaze and lets out a quiet laugh. “God, no. It mostly just tells me when I’ve been sitting too long.” He taps the screen with the pen in his hand. “My wife got it for me. She keeps hoping I’ll start running with her.”
I huff out a small laugh. “Running’s overrated.”
He smiles. “I’ve been saying that for years.”
I feel my lips tug into a smile, but I clear my throat and shift my bag higher on my shoulder. “Anyway… thanks for your time.”
He tips his chin in a small nod. “Of course. If you have more questions, you know where to find me. Miss…”
Something tightens in my chest. “Prescott. Aurora Prescott.”
“Aurora,” he repeats. “Glad to have a student hungry for answers.”
I nod, mumble a quick thanks, and slip out of the room before he has a chance to read anything on my face.
I make my way up the steps and push through the door, stepping out into the hallway.
My phone buzzes in my bag and I dig around for it, pulling it out when I see my mom’s name lighting up the screen.
Mom:
How are things at Northwood? Good to be back?
My stomach twists a little, my gaze snagging on the name of the college she still thinks I go to. Two years of letting her believe that, because correcting it would mean explaining everything else she has no clue I know.
Me:
Yeah. All good. Busy week.
Mom:
Good. Just checking in. Don’t forget to rest. Love you.
I swallow, my eyes squeezing shut for a beat, guilt pressing hot in my chest before I quickly tap out a reply.
Me:
Love you too.
I lock my phone and slip it back into my bag, but it buzzes again almost immediately, and I pull it back out.
Cecilia:
We have a spot open tonight. Tell me you’re finally saying yes.
I stare at her name for a second, my thumb resting on the edge of the screen.
The first time she mentioned it, I laughed it off and told her I wasn’t that girl.
But now, I’m not sure I know who I am.
My mind flashes back to Professor Williams at the front of the room, talking about the way you can go your whole life letting other people decide who you’re going to be. How easy it is to just… keep playing your part.
Maybe this is stupid. Maybe it’s reckless.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and decide it was the worst idea I’ve ever had.
But it’s my bad idea to make. Not Chase’s.
Not my mom’s. Not anyone’s version of me except the one who’s standing in this hallway, tired and angry and done being reduced to the girl he cheated on.
My heart thuds as I type out my reply before I can talk myself out of it.
Me:
I’ll be there.