HIS FAVOURITE MISTAKE

--- I stood at the entrance of the university gate, my suitcase trailing behind me and my heart doing somersaults in my chest. Wellington Heights University. The name alone was intimidating. Everyone said it was one of the most prestigious schools in the country—an elite world filled with brilliance, rules, and untouchable people. I was surprised they even accepted me, let alone offered me a scholarship. But now that I was here, reality was hitting differently. I took a deep breath. This was supposed to be a fresh start. A way to escape everything that haunted me. But the past has sharp teeth, and some scars run deeper than the skin. --- The cab driver had dropped me off an hour ago, and yet, I stood there frozen. Something about being in a place that promised hope made me feel more aware of the pain I carried. It clung to me, invisible but heavy. I touched the small bracelet around my wrist. It wasn’t fancy, just a simple thread of blue and silver beads. But it meant something. My mother gave it to me before she died. It was the last time I felt safe—before I was passed around like unwanted luggage, finally ending up with my aunt. My aunt... if you could call her that. Strict. Cold. Controlling. She never let me forget I wasn’t her real daughter. At seven years old, I learned how to clean, cook, and disappear. At twenty, I was still trying to unlearn the silence. --- “Zarah!” A familiar voice pulled me from my thoughts. I turned, and there she was—Mina, my best friend and roommate. She waved dramatically like we hadn’t just seen each other last week at the entrance exam interview. “Mina,” I smiled softly. She was always full of energy, loud in the best way, bold where I was quiet. “You’re early.” “You kidding? First day of uni? I’ve been awake since 5 a.m.” She grabbed my arm and looped it through hers. “Come on, let’s go dump your stuff and catch breakfast before orientation.” We walked together through the gates, surrounded by confident-looking students with sleek hair and expensive shoes. “You good?” she asked, glancing sideways at me. “I’m okay,” I lied. She saw through it. “Don’t overthink it, Z. We’re here now. You earned this. You belong here.” I nodded, but a small part of me still wasn’t convinced. --- The dorm room was small but cozy. Two beds, two desks, and a window with sunlight streaming in. Mina talked the entire time I unpacked—about her course schedule, the parties she planned to attend, the people she’d already stalked on campus social media pages. Me? I stayed quiet. I always did. It was easier to observe than to participate. Safer, too. At exactly 9:45 a.m., we headed to our first class of the day: Contemporary Literature. Mina was bubbling with excitement, but my nerves were starting to win. I clutched my notebook and tried to blend in as we walked into the large hall. Rows of students. A whiteboard. Silence. Then the door opened, and he walked in. --- He wasn’t what I expected. Most professors looked… older. Or distracted. Or like they’d rather be anywhere else. But this man? Tall. Composed. Black-brown hair, no beard, dark eyes that scanned the room like he already knew too much. He walked with purpose. Like he didn’t just enter the room—he owned it. Something about him made my stomach twist. He turned to write his name on the board. > Professor Elias Wolfe Even the name sounded like a secret. “Damn,” Mina whispered beside me. “Didn’t know professors could be that hot.” I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Because for a split second… his eyes landed on me. Like he remembered something. Or someone. But then the moment was gone, and he started taking attendance. --- “Zarah Malik?” he said, scanning the list. “Here,” I replied, trying to keep my voice even. He didn’t look up. But I could’ve sworn I felt his gaze linger longer than it should. --- The lecture began, and he spoke with the kind of calm that demanded attention. “Contemporary literature is not about pretty metaphors or perfect grammar,” he said. “It’s about emotion. Truth. Writing what hurts, because that’s what sticks.” I found myself leaning in without meaning to. His voice wasn’t soft—it was sharp, the kind that cuts through noise. The more he spoke, the more I felt like I wasn’t just hearing his words—I was feeling them. Like he’d lived through every line he taught. Like pain was something personal to him too. --- About halfway through, my pen slipped off my notebook and clattered to the floor. I bent quickly to pick it up—and bumped into someone’s leg. My eyes traveled up slowly. It was him. He stood near the front, having moved through the aisles while speaking. And now… he was right there. Our eyes met—just briefly—but it was long enough to make my throat dry. He didn’t say anything. Just looked. Cold. Curious. Unreadable. Then he turned back to the whiteboard as if nothing had happened. --- The lecture ended. Students stood and chatted. Mina waved at someone across the room and rushed off. I moved slowly, trying to slip past the front row. And just as I reached the door— “Miss Malik.” His voice again. Low. Careful. Like a warning. I turned. He didn’t come closer. He didn’t even look directly at me. Just said, “Be on time next class.” “But I was—” He looked up. That look. I stopped speaking. He didn’t blink. I nodded. “Yes, sir.” And then I walked out. --- My chest was tight. Not from fear. From confusion. What just happened?