CHAPTER 7: THE SECOND NOTE
1086 Words
The alarm rang at 1:30pm, slicing through the silence.
My eyes flew open. “What!” I grabbed my phone, blinking against the screen.
I thought I'd set it for one
“s**t!” The word slipped out, half-groan, half-panic
I shot upright, blanket tangling around my legs as I scrambled out of bed. My heart
pounded like it was trying to makeup for the minutes i'd lost.
First day of class, and I'm already late. Perfect.
A notification blinked across my screen:
Psychology 2:00p.m, West Hall, Block C, Room 4A
There was no time to think, only to move — hair messy, mind foggy. I yanked open the closet, and reached for the first thing I saw: a long sleeved white top, blue jeans, and white sneakers.
I tugged the top over my head, fingers fumbling with the hem. The mirror caught me as I shoved my hair into a loose bun.
My reflection looked… tired. Flushed from rushing, eyes still soft with sleep.
And for a second, I thought about last night— his voice, the way his jaw tightened when he said “That was a mistake.”
My chest tightened as his words replayed in my head, louder than they had any right to be.
“It doesn't matter! He doesn't matter!” she shouted, voice breaking halfway through.
The sudden outburst jolted Asher awake. He pushed himself up, eyes darting across the room.
“Lala, what's wrong?”
I didn't answer him. Grabbing my tote bag, I shoved my notebook inside, and slipped on my sneakers.
“Damn it! What's the problem with this shoe lace?” she groaned.
“Finally!” I tied them, and ran out of the room.
By the time I reached West Hall, the corridors were alive with chatter, and footsteps.
But it wasn't just chatter and footsteps.
It was laughter.
Whispers.
The kind that pricked my skin before I even caught the words.
A cluster of girls huddled by the lockers, heads bent close in a practiced circle. Their manicured hands fluttered as they whispered, eyes cutting my way with looks that said
Who's the new chick?
A few boys lounged by the staircase, lazy smirks curving their lips – like they all shared the same inside joke.
I swallowed hard and kept walking, pretending i didn't feel the stares tracing my every step, eyes glued to the doors.
“Room 3B…Room 3C…. Room 4A.” Finally! I pushed the door open, and slipped inside.
“Sorry I'm late,” she muttered, eyes fixed, anywhere but the front row.
The Professor– Ms. Megan– all sharp eyeliner, brown eyes, black long braids, in a black suit. Looked up from the attendance sheet.
“Name, and Major?”
“Larissa Davis. Psychology major, Literature minor.”
Before the words even settled, a voice from the back cut through.
“Wait… aren't you the star of the freshman group chat ?”
Laughter rippled across the room. Whispers. Pity on some faces, mockery on others.
“Enough!” Ms. Megan snapped, her tone slicing the noise clean. Silence fell — uneven, and reluctant.
I forced a smile, and sat on a seat close to the window.
Her notebook stayed closed.The lecture went on, but all she heard was a dull hum in her head.
A folded note slid across my desk.
No name, just a line, written in sharp, and slanted handwriting:
“You really think he kissed you because he liked you?”
My fingers went cold.
The words blurred, sinking into my chest like a bruise that refused to fade.
The walls suddenly felt too close, the air too heavy. My notebook stayed untouched as I rose walking towards the door.
“Miss Davis?” Ms. Megan's voice cut through the room.
I froze midstep, my hand still on the door knob.
“I…i’m sorry ma'am.” I blurted, turning halfway. “I just —Uhhh— thought I left my phone charging in the hallway.”
“Classic!” A voice from the class shouted .
“Then find it after class,” Ms. Megan said, turning back to the board.
“Right. Oops,” I murmured, as I walked back to my seat.
For a second, fear flickered through me. Then I exhaled.
Maybe someone was just messing with me, or trying to get my attention. No one was literally there when we kissed.
“But… Seriously?” I whispered under her breath. “We're doing middle school drama now?” she chuckled.
A few heads turned, wondering why she chuckled. She smiled— small, bitter, but real. I kicked the note under my desk like it was nothing more than trash.
“If whoever wrote it wanted a reaction, they're not getting one. Not today.” She murmured.
I sat upright, picked up my pen, and started doodling nonsense in the margins of my notebook, pretending to take notes. Anything to look like I'm fine.
The clock ticked louder than the lecture.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
My stomach grumbled— a cruel reminder I hadn't eaten enough. I reached into my tote for a gum, but my finger brushed paper instead.
Another note.
My chest tightened.
I glanced around pretending to stretch, hoping no one was watching me .
Slowly I unfolded it.
“You should really stop pretending it didn't mean something.”
My throat went dry.
The handwriting — same as before. Sharp, and confident.
I folded it and slipped it into my notebook. Fine. If someone wants to play games with me. I'll play smarter.
When the class finally ended, I waited for everyone to leave. My finger hovered over the note, tracing the edges.That was when I saw something faint printed at the corner.
A watermark.
EAST HALL LIBRARY. Page Room 001
My pulse thudded.
Who the hell still uses library stationery?
Before I could talk myself out of it, I slipped the note into my pocket, and left the room.
By the time I'd reached the library, the air felt colder. The page room door was half open, light spilling through the c***k.
I pushed it gently, walked inside as my hand glided across the books on the shelf, as if I was searching for something.
I froze.
Someone was behind the last shelf, sitting on the table, hoodie up, fingers drumming lazily against a book.
When the person turned back, my heart stuttered.
“Asher?”
He smiled — too easily. “You finally came.”
- Writer
