some fear the roses

I didn’t choose psychology to heal people. I chose it to understand how to break them. Cairo University wasn’t impressive. Not to me. The lecture hall smelled like decay—old paper, burnt coffee, and dreams that had quietly died in their seats. Hundreds before me had sat here, thinking they’d matter. Most of them didn’t. The professor kept talking. Something about behavioral patterns. Predictable. Recycled. Useless. I stopped listening five minutes ago. My fingers tapped against the desk—slow, controlled. Not impatience. Calculation. I scanned the room instead. Same types. Always the same types. Anxious note-takers. Sleepwalkers with open eyes. People reacting, never thinking. A flock. And I wasn’t part of it. “I swear I’m dying, Celine…” Nancy whispered beside me, shifting in her seat like she was physically allergic to silence. “Is this ever going to end? My brain is melting. Why are we even here?” I didn’t look at her. “You insisted on coming,” I said flatly. “Congratulations. This is what intellectual suicide feels like.” She exhaled sharply. “I thought maybe—just maybe—he’d say something interesting today.” “He’s reading from a book older than his relevance.” That did it. The chalk stopped. Silence snapped across the room like a wire pulled too tight. “If your conversation is more valuable than this lecture,” the professor barked, “you’re free to continue it outside.” Eyes turned. Of course they did. They were waiting for it—waiting to see me shrink. I didn’t. I stood. Slowly. Deliberately. Every movement controlled, precise. Not submission—presentation. I gathered my things like I owned the room. Like he was the interruption, not me. Then I looked at him. Not angry. Not embarrassed. Just… above him. “You’re dismissed from my lectures for two weeks!” he snapped. I walked out before he finished the sentence. My heels hit the floor—sharp, rhythmic. Not retreat. A statement. The cafeteria was chaos. Noise, movement, people pretending to matter. I sat down, pulled out my mirror. Perfect. Always. But something underneath was off. Not hurt. Disrupted. “What is wrong with you?” Nancy dropped into the chair across from me. “Relax. He’s just a bitter fossil. You’re really going to let that ruin your mood?” I didn’t answer. Because I wasn’t looking at her anymore. Across the room—someone else existed. Alone. Still. Focused. A book in one hand. A pen in the other. No movement. No distraction. No awareness of anything around him. Interesting. The noise didn’t touch him. The room didn’t exist for him. People like that are rare. Dangerous, sometimes. Attractive, occasionally. Nancy followed my gaze—and froze. “Oh… okay. That’s him,” she whispered. “The ‘Shadow.’ The one everyone talks about. He hasn’t looked up once since the semester started.” I kept watching. He didn’t move. Didn’t react. Didn’t notice me. And that… That was new. Not intriguing. Not impressive. An insult. To him— I didn’t exist. Nancy laughed. Low. Sharp. Calculated. It wasn’t amusement. It was provocation. “Relax, Cely,” she said, leaning back like she’d already won. “For once in your life, just accept it. You lost.” I didn’t move. “Look at you,” she continued, her smile slow and venomous. “The girl every man worships… reduced to background noise. By a guy who doesn’t even know your name.” That did it. The world didn’t shake. It focused. Red. Clean. Precise. I stood up so fast the chair screamed across the floor. Conversations around us dipped—just slightly. Enough. My palms hit the table. Once. Control. Not chaos. I leaned closer. “I am Celine Baghdadi,” I said quietly. Not loud. Not emotional. Certain. “Men don’t ignore me. They compete for proximity. They negotiate for attention.” A pause. Measured. “And no one walks away untouched.” Nancy’s smile faltered—just for a second. That was enough. “You’ll watch,” I added, straightening. “Very closely.” I fixed my hair. Softened my expression. Adjusted my breathing. Switching personas isn’t manipulation. It’s skill. By the time I reached his table, I wasn’t the storm anymore. I was something else. “Yahya?” My voice dropped—warmer, quieter. He didn’t look up. He finished writing first. Capped his pen. Then—finally—his eyes met mine. No reaction. No recognition. Just… assessment. Interesting. “Can I sit?” I asked softly, tilting my head just enough to signal harmlessness. I sat before he answered. Close enough to exist. Not close enough to challenge. “I just need a minute,” I added. “You seem… different.” Nothing. No ego response. No curiosity. So I escalated. “What is it about me you don’t like?” Direct. Personal. I leaned slightly closer, letting the silence stretch. “Is it my presence?” I whispered. A beat. “Or my existence?” A tear formed—perfect timing, perfect control. Most men break here. They rush to fix. To reassure. To engage. He didn’t. He just watched. Calm. Still. Detached. Then he exhaled. Not annoyed. Tired. “You do this to yourself, Celine.” No anger. No edge. Worse. Indifference. “I know your type,” he continued, packing his things without urgency. “You study psychology, yet you miss the simplest pattern.” His eyes locked onto mine again. “You’re not interested in me.” A pause. “You’re interested in the fact that I don’t reflect you.” Silence hit harder than any insult. “You built an identity around being desired,” he went on. “Attention isn’t a byproduct for you—it’s fuel.” Each word landed clean. Surgical. “You’re loud. Performative. Predictable.” My jaw tightened. He didn’t stop. “It’s in your clothes. Your voice. The way you enter a room like it owes you something.” A slight tilt of his head. “You don’t understand restraint. Or modesty. Or boundaries.” He stood. Effortless. Final. “For someone like me,” he added, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “you’re not intriguing.” A beat. “You’re noise.” And just like that— He left. No hesitation. No glance back. I didn’t move. Not because I couldn’t. Because I refused to react in a way anyone could read. But inside— Something cracked. Not my confidence. Something deeper. More dangerous. “Well,” Nancy’s voice slid back in, soaked in satisfaction. “That was… brutal.” I wiped the tear. No softness left. Just edge. “The bet stands,” I said. Calm. Flat. Controlled. “A week in Hurghada. On the loser.” Nancy raised an eyebrow. “After that?” I stood. Slowly. Eyes still on the door he walked through. “This isn’t about the bet anymore.” My voice dropped—quieter than before. “He thinks he understands me.” A faint smile. Cold. “He thinks I’m predictable.” I picked up my bag. Turned. “People like him always make the same mistake.” Nancy leaned in. “Which is?” I met her eyes. “They confuse silence with strength.” A pause. Then: “I’ll make him listen.”