The One Without A Mask
917 Words
I wasn’t supposed to be here.
Again.
I’d told myself the last semester was my final one. That I’d walk away from this cesspool of polished fakes, glossy masks, and last names heavier than actual talent. But here I was—again—sitting behind the wheel of my black Benz, watching Hillcrest University loom in the distance like it had claws made of marble and gold.
I hated this place.
Not because of the lectures. Those, I could tolerate.
It was the students.
Rich, hollow, always talking with their chins raised, convinced the world would bend for them just like daddy’s bank account did.
They never listened. They pretended to. Nodded. Took notes like it mattered. But in the end, it was always the same. Daddy’s donation would open the next door, and Mommy’s connections would smooth out the rest.
The girls were worse. Predatory in pastel. Always circling. Always calculating. Like mating season never ended.
And yet here I was again. Why?
Because of one person.
Dean Marcellus.
He was the reason I hadn’t left after the second semester. He was the reason I bothered to write out coursework and stand in front of spoiled teenagers pretending not to yawn through macroeconomic theory.
He was the only man who’d ever looked me in the eye and told me the truth.
“You’re not here for them,” he’d said. “You’re here for the ones who slip through the cracks. The ones trying. They exist. You just have to look harder.”
And I respected that. Him.
So I stayed.
One more semester, I’d said.
I cut the engine and stepped out of the car. The private lot reserved for faculty was half-empty. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still sulking. Good. The gloom fit the mood.
My coat collar was up, blocking the wind. My shoes clicked against the pavement as I crossed the courtyard. And like clockwork, I was met with the same scene.
Laughter too loud to be real. Perfume strong enough to choke. Heels stabbing the ground like declarations of war.
Three girls in designer jackets passed me, and two of them slowed down just enough to whisper and giggle behind their manicured hands.
One even said my name like it was a flavor. “Professor Lucas…”
Pathetic.
I didn’t even look at them.
I reached the admin building and made my way toward the elevator, mentally reviewing my lecture outline. Economics 101. Intro class. Probably half full of legacy admits with a blood-alcohol content higher than their GPA.
Then I saw her.
She was kneeling on the floor by the main stairwell, her bag spilled across the marble. A broken strap dangled from one side. Her books were soaked at the edges. Pen cap rolling under a bench.
What caught my attention wasn’t the mess. Or even her clumsy panic.
It was her.
She looked… out of place.
Not just because of the coat, which was at least three years out of style. Not because of the patched backpack or the jeans with fading at the knees. It was the expression on her face. Unfiltered. Real.
Innocent.
She didn’t reek of perfume or fake laughter. She wasn’t posing for attention. In fact, she was trying to disappear into the floor tiles.
And that innocence?
It hit me in a place I didn’t know could still react.
She looked up just as I stepped closer—wide, startled eyes behind smudged glasses, water dripping off her hair like she hadn’t even realized she was wet. No fake lashes. No contouring. Just a girl. Small, shivering, and stunned.
Her gaze flicked up to my face, then down again fast. But not because she wanted to be coy.
Because she was actually overwhelmed.
It was… different.
She wasn’t gawking. She wasn’t planning her opening line to flirt. She wasn’t pushing her chest out or tucking her hair behind her ear for effect.
She just… looked.
And not at my paycheck or my last name.
At me.
That was new.
I crouched silently and picked up the closest book—Macroeconomics, thick and water-stained. Her name was scribbled across the front cover in looping pink letters.
“Madeline Hart,” I read under my breath.
It sounded too soft for this place.
She blinked up at me, her hands frozen mid-reach.
I handed her the folder next.
She flinched slightly when our fingers brushed.
“Be careful,” I said.
Her lips parted, like she had something to say. But nothing came out. Just a tiny nod.
I stood, dusted off my gloves, and walked away without waiting for thanks.
She didn’t chase after me. Didn’t try to strike up some awkward conversation. She just stayed there, on her knees, like the moment had unzipped her whole day and left her unsure what to do with the pieces.
Good.
This school would eat her alive.
And I wasn’t about to play savior.
But…
Something about her lingered.
The type of girl who probably thought scholarships were miracles. Who still believed grades meant something. The type who read the syllabus front to back. Who brought highlighters to class and triple-checked assignment dates.
I didn’t know what her story was, but it sure as hell wasn’t old money or secret legacies.
She was the crack.
The one Marcellus was always talking about.
The one trying.
I reached the elevator and jammed the button harder than necessary.
Damn it.
Now I’d remember her name.
- Writer
