Married to My Stalker

Chapter 3 — Aurel’s Ordinary Day

The alarm clock buzzed again, a thin, metallic ringing that filled every corner of the little studio apartment. Aurel rolled onto her side and pressed the heel of her palm against her temple, groaning softly. She never quite got used to that sound—it was shrill, unkind, like it was personally scolding her for daring to be tired.

The clock’s red numbers blinked 6:00 a.m. She squinted at them, debating if five more minutes would change anything. But then she remembered the quiz in her physiology class, and the laundry pick-up waiting for her in the evening, and the fact that if she didn’t move now, the entire day would pile on top of her like wet clothes in a basket.

She swung her legs off the bed. The floor was cold; it always was, no matter how many cheap rugs she tried layering across it. She sat there for a moment, her toes curling, eyes fixed on the chipped paint of the wall. She breathed in slowly, then pushed herself up.

The kitchen corner of the apartment wasn’t much more than a counter, a hot plate, and a dented kettle. She filled it halfway, set it to boil, and leaned her elbows on the counter. The smell of instant coffee powder already sat in the air, sharp and faintly bitter. Aurel didn’t love coffee—her stomach hated it most mornings—but without it, she risked falling asleep in class.

By the time the water bubbled, she had combed through her hair with her fingers, pulling it into a messy bun. She reached for the jar, spooned two heaping scoops of the coffee, and stirred until the liquid turned dark. She sipped carefully, wincing. It burned her tongue, but at least it promised to keep her awake.

Her clothes for the day were folded neatly on the back of her chair: faded jeans, a pale yellow blouse with loose sleeves, and a cardigan she had thrifted for five dollars last year. She dressed slowly, tugging the cardigan tight against her chest as if it could shield her from more than just the autumn chill.

On her desk, her textbooks were stacked precariously, like a tower of pressure. She flipped open the top one—Principles of Human Anatomy—and traced a line with her finger across a highlighted section. Just one last glance before class, she told herself. But her eyes blurred, and she realized she wasn’t reading so much as staring. With a sigh, she closed it again, slid it into her bag, and headed out the door.

---

The walk to Stanton University was brisk, the air carrying a dampness that clung to her cardigan. Camden Hill mornings were often gray, the kind of gray that made the buildings blend into the sky. She walked quickly, weaving past students on bikes, others rushing with headphones stuffed in their ears, some laughing loudly in groups.

Aurel kept her head low. She wasn’t unfriendly, but mornings drained her. Her sneakers scuffed against the pavement as she crossed onto campus, where the wide lawn was littered with early risers already camped out with laptops.

The science building loomed at the far end, a rectangle of brick and glass. She climbed the steps, pausing just briefly to catch her breath before slipping inside.

Her classroom was half full already. Aurel scanned the rows, her gaze darting past groups of friends, clusters of chatter. She spotted a seat near the middle—safe, not too close to the front where the professor’s gaze burned, not too far back where distractions multiplied.

She slid into the chair, pulled out her notebook, and clicked her pen.

The professor arrived minutes later, a tall man with thinning hair and a habit of clearing his throat before every sentence. He launched straight into the lecture, chalk squealing against the board as diagrams bloomed across it—nephron structures, renal functions, the familiar yet always intimidating web of science.

Aurel bent over her notebook. Her handwriting wasn’t neat—letters slanted forward like they were running away from her—but she wrote fast, determined not to miss a single point.

Every so often, her eyes flicked up to the professor’s gestures, then back to the board. Around her, students typed furiously on laptops, keys clacking in sync like rain. A few whispered in hushed tones about weekend parties. Someone behind her chewed gum loudly, the pop-pop breaking her concentration.

She pressed her pen harder against the page.

Her mind wandered, despite herself. The thought of her loan repayment schedule crept in, numbers circling in her brain like vultures. She tried to chase it away by focusing on the lecture, but when the professor mentioned glomerular filtration rate, all she could think about was her own rate of exhaustion.

Still, she wrote. Still, she pushed through.

When the quiz sheets were passed around, her palms dampened with sweat. She read the first question twice, bit her lip, and scribbled an answer she hoped wasn’t too far from correct.

By the time she turned in the paper, her chest felt hollow. But she smiled faintly anyway—relief, however small, was still relief.

---

The cafeteria at Stanton smelled of frying oil and coffee grounds. The line snaked long, filled with chatter. Aurel gripped her tray tightly when she finally reached the counter, scanning the prices on the board.

Her stomach grumbled, but her wallet made the choice for her. She picked a small bowl of vegetable soup and a piece of cornbread. No drink; water was free.

She carried the tray to a corner table, setting it down carefully. Around her, groups of students laughed over burgers and fries, their voices filling the space like bright paint splashes on a dull canvas.

Aurel sat alone, spooning the soup slowly. It was warm, salty, and thin, but it soothed her. She watched people sometimes, not out of envy but curiosity—the easy way they spoke to each other, the freedom of not counting every dollar in their pockets.

When she finished, she folded her napkin neatly, set it on the tray, and carried it back to the return rack. Small order, small presence, small impact. That was fine. That was her.

---

The afternoon brought errands. She had three laundry pick-ups scheduled: two from the east dorms, one from a senior who lived off-campus. She tied her hair back tighter, hefted the first bag over her shoulder, and staggered slightly under the weight.

“Got it,” she muttered to herself, adjusting her grip.

The dorm hall smelled faintly of detergent already. She knocked, waited, then exchanged polite words with the student before hauling the bag downstairs.

By the second trip, her arms ached. Sweat dampened her blouse beneath the cardigan, strands of hair sticking to her temple. She reminded herself it was worth it—every ten-dollar load, every tip.

The last pick-up was heavier, and she had to stop twice on the sidewalk to readjust. A group of students passed by, laughing, and one gave her a curious look but didn’t offer help. She bit back the sting of embarrassment and kept walking.

At the laundromat, she fed coins into the machines, lined the bags along the benches, and rubbed her sore shoulders. The machines whirred to life, water gurgling, the scent of detergent filling the air.

She sat on a hard plastic chair, pulled out her notes, and tried to review while waiting. But her eyelids drooped, her head dipping forward. She pinched her arm lightly to stay awake.

The rhythm of the machines almost lulled her to sleep, but she fought it. She couldn’t afford to waste a moment—not when every hour counted.

---

By evening, she returned to her apartment with a lighter load. The laundry neatly folded, her tips tucked safely into her wallet, her body sore but steady.

She set a small pot of rice to cook, chopping half an onion and a few vegetables she had left. The knife thudded softly against the board, the sizzle of oil greeting her as she tossed everything into the pan. The smell filled the tiny space, comforting in its simplicity.

She ate slowly at her desk, flipping through tomorrow’s readings. Her fork tapped the edge of the bowl as she chewed, underlining sentences between bites.

The night grew quiet. Outside, distant laughter echoed from the street. Inside, only the hum of her desk lamp accompanied her.

When she finally set her books aside, her back ached, her eyes heavy. She crawled into bed, pulling the blanket to her chin.

For a moment, as the apartment settled into silence, she thought she heard a faint click. Like plastic against wood. Her heart jumped, but she told herself it was nothing—just the old pipes, or the neighbors, or her imagination running wild.

She closed her eyes. Sleep pulled at her quickly.

Somewhere, hidden in the corner of the room, a tiny red light blinked once, then disappeared.