Episode16
1016 Words
KATHLEEN'S P.O.V.
The following morning, I wake up to sunlight spilling through my curtains, lighting up the room as its rays burnt my eyes behind my lids.
"For the love of everything." I groan, pulling my covers over me, intending to catch some more sleep, but it doesn't help as my body gradually awakens.
Frustrated and feeling grumpy, I throw my cover off me, letting out a tired yawn.
Reality settles in the moment I sit up in bed, my mind immediately ticking through responsibilities I've been trying to ignore-rent, groceries, supplies. Bills upon bills which weren't going to sort themselves.
I groan softly, falling back against my pillows.
Marcus was right. I looked exhausted. And part of that exhaustion came from pretending things weren't as bad as they actually were.
I needed a job.
Nothing fancy, just something that reassured me that I'd have something to look forward to at the end of every month. Something that didn't involve me borrowing money or counting every cent before swiping my card.
After a quick shower, I make myself a cup of coffee and sit at my tiny kitchen table with my laptop. The screen glares back at me as I start scrolling through job listings.
Opening for a barista, a retail associate...blah, blah, blah. I sigh. None of them caught my interest, nor was the pay attractive enough. Just when I was on the verge of giving up, something caught my eye. A gallery assistant.
I pause. Gallery assistant.
My fingers hover over the mouse momentarily before I click on the posting. It's a part-time job with flexible hours. The description mentions assisting with exhibitions, managing supplies, and interacting with visitors.
It sounded plausible and exciting, to say the least.
I bookmarked it, along with a few others, before closing my laptop with a sigh. One thing at a time, I had class to get to.
On campus, the air feels lighter than it did in the past days. Perhaps it was the weather. Maybe it's the lingering comfort from yesterday. I catch myself humming under my breath as I walk, my sketchbook tucked under my arm.
That's when my phone vibrates.
My steps slow instinctively.
For a split second, my fear stirs slowly-my heart racing as I swallow uneasily. But when I glance at the screen, I realise it was just a message from a familiar number. Although my unease didn't completely go away, especially when I realised who it was.
'Professor Dawson:
Good morning, Kathleen. I hope you slept well.'
My heart skips. Once. Then twice.
I shouldn't have responded, especially at the speed at which I did. Yet my fingers betray me.
'Good morning, Professor. I did, thank you.'
A pause follows; I remain rooted to my spot, glancing up and looking around. Taking my bottom lip between my teeth, I bite down on it nervously. Perhaps I should have just ignored him.
My phone dings again.
'I'm glad.
If you're still open to it, we can meet briefly after your lecture tomorrow. Coffee on campus?'
I bite down harder on my lip, drawing blood as I stare at the message.
'Yeah, sure.' I reply after a moment.
'Great,' he responds. 'Have a good day, Kathleen.'
Without typing back a response, I slip my phone back into my bag, my heart racing in anxiety.
The lecture passes uneventfully; thankfully, there was nothing unusual. Still, that strange sensation lingers. The feeling of being watched even when no one was looking at me.
Later, while walking toward the library, I slow to a stop, glancing uneasily over my shoulder, a shiver coursing through me.
Something feels wrong. I resume walking, glancing behind me from time to time.
And each time, I saw nothing suspicious. Just people engaging in conversations. I was just unnecessarily paranoid.
I shake it off, annoyed with myself.
'You're fine, Kathleen. Get your s**t together.'
Inside the library, I settle into a far corner and pull out my sketchbook. My pencil moves absentmindedly at first until I look at the image, really look.
A defined jaw, piercing eyes. A calm, unreadable expression, which people could wrongfully assume to be cutting at times.
I freeze, snap out of it and sharply close the sketchbook with a slam that attracts attention. Some people are throwing me annoyed looks. I throw them an apologetic smile that I'm pretty sure looks rather forced.
"God no, not again," I mutter under my breath.
This was getting ridiculous.
I pack up and leave shortly after, deciding I'd had enough quiet corners and overthinking for one day.
That evening, back in my apartment, I pull out my laptop again and open the gallery listing. This time, I don't hesitate.
I upload my résumé, attaching some of my non-governmental work experience.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit submit. A wave of relief settles over me. Maybe this was the first step toward reclaiming some sense of control.
As I crawl into bed later, my phone lights up once more.
Unknown number.
My breath catches.
But when I open the message, it's not what I expect.
'This is Clara from Easton Gallery. We received your application and would love to schedule an interview with you.'
Excitement rushes through me so fast it makes me dizzy.
Tomorrow.
Everything was happening tomorrow.
I set my phone down, staring at the ceiling as my heart steadies.
My first job interview.
A meeting with Professor Dawson.
I tossed and turned for the longest, already picturing how it'd turn out. I could bet my last dollar I was probably going to fumble my words. They'd most likely find me weird and decide I was unfit for the job. My earlier excitement instantly washes away.
Shaking away the negative thoughts, I roll over, curling up under my cover as I stare into the night. I couldn't afford to be negative. Negative thoughts bring bad luck.
As the clock ticks slowly, the streets bustle, the sky is void of stars, and I can't help but dread my inevitable meeting with my hot professor tomorrow.
- Writer
