Unnecessary Distractions
963 Words
Dante’s POV
____ _
As I watched my students leave, my attention settled on the one student who had managed to capture my interest—the same one from the morning. She was about to leave with her friend when I stopped her.
Something I had never done unless it was strictly for academic reasons.
“Miss. You—stay back.”
I said it loud and clear, enough for her to understand that she was the one I was addressing.
Her friend glanced at her in sympathy before leaving, already aware of the parking lot incident.
The door closed behind the last student, and soon the lecture hall was empty.
Now it was just the two of us.
From where I stood, I could see her hands trembling slightly. She was convinced I was about to punish her for what happened that morning.
In truth, what she did wasn’t even punishable. She hadn’t known it was me, and she hadn’t been rude—not really.
Still, I let her worry.
It was interesting to observe.
“What are your names?”
She visibly swallowed.
Since attendance was done digitally, lecturers didn’t immediately know their students unless they checked the register or conducted a roll call. By asking for her name, I had confirmed her fear.
She thought I was going to penalize her marks.
I didn’t really know why I was doing all this when I could find her name in less than a minute if I opened the register.
And yet, I asked anyway.
“Sir, I’m so sorry about this morning. It was a mistake, and I would do anything to make up for it.”
Anything.
Such a powerful word.
She continued, nervously explaining herself and begging me not to subtract marks she hadn’t even earned yet.
“Your names,” I repeated calmly.
Finally, she gave them to me.
Then she left the classroom quietly, defeated, pausing only to say she hoped I had a nice day ahead.
***
I searched for her that evening.
Not an obsessive search.
But a search nonetheless.
It turned out to be very easy.
Her face was everywhere.
She was something of an influencer—over one hundred thousand followers on her personal page and a business page with almost a million followers, though it hadn’t been verified yet.
Her business bio read:
Artist | Ghost.
When I scrolled through her content using one of my untraceable accounts, I quickly learned what that meant.
She was a beauty artist. She braided hair. She did makeup, nails, lashes, brows—everything.
And a food artist. A caterer.
She crocheted too.
The “ghost” part turned out to mean ghostwriter, something I only learned after watching several videos.
The girl was talented.
And independent.
She ran a small beauty salon out of her garage. There was also a small dining space where customers could come to eat her grilled fish—which, according to the comments section, was the best in town.
She was successful.
More successful than most students her age.
When I felt like I understood her business well enough, I moved to her main page.
Lifestyle content.
Brand reviews.
Businesses sending her PR packages.
Influence.
Visibility.
Attention.
I scrolled longer than I intended to.
Curiosity was a dangerous thing.
By the time I stopped, it was already one in the morning.
And I realized I had accomplished absolutely nothing productive that night.
I sighed and prepared for bed.
***
I attended seminars for one reason.
Efficiency.
They condensed information into a few hours that would otherwise require weeks of scattered reading. Data, research, projections—delivered quickly by people who had spent years gathering it.
Today’s topic was E-agriculture.
Not my field.
But the intersection between technology, data infrastructure, and agriculture had expanded aggressively over the last decade. Cloud security was becoming increasingly relevant to it, which made the seminar worth attending.
The conference hall was located downtown, far from the university.
Neutral ground.
Quiet.
Professional.
Exactly the kind of place where nothing unexpected should happen.
I arrived early, as usual.
Punctuality was not discipline.
It was respect for time.
The room was already half full with researchers, investors, government representatives, academics. Conversations blended together in low, controlled tones.
The kind of environment where people pretended they were not evaluating everyone else in the room.
I took a seat along the side row, placing my phone and notebook on the table in front of me.
A speaker walked onto the stage and began discussing digital monitoring systems for crop production.
Interesting.
I listened.
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
Then something shifted in the room.
Not dramatically.
Just movement.
Someone entering late.
My eyes moved toward the entrance out of instinct.
And stopped.
Unexpected variables rarely announced themselves politely.
They simply appeared.
She walked into the hall as though she didn’t realize she had disrupted the entire visual balance of the room.
The same girl from my calculus class.
The one from the parking lot.
The one who argued with me over a parking space fifteen minutes before my lecture last Monday.
Olivia.
She paused briefly near the door, scanning the room for an empty seat.
Today, she wasn’t dressed like a university student.
She wore a long white gown that brought out her olive complexion—simple, elegant, the kind that moved easily when she walked.
The fabric followed the natural lines of her body without trying too hard. Not dramatic. Just effective. Effective enough to turn heads.
It revealed enough to suggest beautiful curves without announcing them.
Professional.
But distracting.
Which was unfortunate. Because I rarely get distracted.
And in that exact moment, I realized something. I was in trouble.
Big time trouble.
And Olivia would be my ultimate downfall.
- Writer
