“I’m so sorry about what that piece of chewed up bubble-gum did to you, Scar,” my best friend, Eva, comforts me by rubbing circles on my back.
“I guess the universe did not want us to be together,” I shrug and dry up the very last of my hot tears.
A vibration sound, preceded by a flashing light, drills its way through my eardrum, instantly causing my train of thoughts to come to a halt and I reach out to my nightstand to switch off the alarm of my phone.
My train of thoughts have kept me awake almost the entire night, earning me about three hours of sleep last night. With my constant thinking, getting about five hours of sleep is an accomplishment.
I rip the blanket off my body, not wanting to proceed with my melancholies reminiscing, and slog exhaustedly towards my bathroom. Luckily my bathroom has a bathtub and a shower, so I let warm water run in the tub, before brushing my teeth. After cleansing my mouth, I head back to my room to retrieve my bathroom towel, before going back to my bathroom.
The warm water massaged my body, soothing every aching muscle of my drained body. Yesterday I began exercising—going for a jog, then completed about forty squats—so the pain is only seeping in now.
After my long tranquil bath, my mind, and body, are both ready for another dreadful day at university.
New York University. A prestige and one of the best tertiary institutions, is where my dreams will, with any luck, be fulfilled. I had always thought that my life would begin once the acceptance letter touched my mailbox, and that I’ll experience the wonderful incentives of being a university student.
Little did I know that the mind's eye is nothing compared to reality.
Not wanting to waste another a minute, I pull out a simple outfit—consisting of black ripped jeans paired up with a white baseball shirt and a pair of Vans sneakers—out of my walk-in closet. I don the outfit after putting on my undergarments, and then tie my sandy blonde hair up into two messy buns.
I complete the look with a thin layer of mascara and some cherry pink lip gloss. Satisfied with how I look in the mirror, I grab my baby blue leather shoulder bag and head downstairs to my clean kitchen.
Checking the time on the kitchen clock, my eyes go wide at the sight of only having ten minutes to get to my lecture which begins in fifteen minutes.
I should’ve taken a five-minute shower instead.
I quickly grab a green apple from the fruit basket resting on the kitchen island, before digging for my set of keys, which I left in my bag last night, and fly out my apartment door.
Upon my arrival, I waste no second in catapulting myself to my literature class. The cranky professor is not pleased with my late arrival and glowers at me for having interrupted an imperative lesson.
“And your reason for your belatedness is, Ms Rose?” His voice creeps me out each time his words are engaged to me. It sounds as though he speaks from his nostrils and not his mouth.
“Are you by any chance going to answer soon?” He asks impatiently. I notice a vein pop from the side of his temple, indicating his bottled-up anger.
“U-Uhm,” I stutter. “Traffic.” I blurt out apprehensively.
“Sit.” He orders me in his stern voice, not wanting to hear more of my lame reasoning.
With my head hanging low, I scan the room in search of an open seat, and to my luck, it’s right in the front row, under the hairy nose of Mr Grayfield. I grunt in annoyance and hurry to my seat before the sullen man reprimands me for interrupting once more.
“As I was saying, before I was rudely interrupted,” he glares at me once more, making me cower in my seat. “—I was explaining this semester’s assignment.”
I groan at the mention of the word. I used to love literature assignments, until I met Mr Always Grumpy over here. His assignments are always tedious and never the include genres I love. He always chooses history or non-fictional essays.
“You have been assigned to write a two-hundred paged fictional novel based on campus romance based on how fate plays a role in teenage lives. This is required to be handed in two months’ time and fail to hand it in on time, twenty percent of your final mark will be deducted.”
Groans erupt from the back of everyone’s throats at the mention of the required length of the novel and the repercussions of not handing it on time.
A scowl etches itself onto my lips as I remember the genre he has mentioned.
I have a horrible history regrading romance. Every guy I came to like or started going out with, would either date me for the wrong reasons or would just get tired of our relationship and leave me for someone ‘more fun.’ I have come to peace with my bad luck in relationships. I have accepted the fact that not everyone deserves to be in love—like me.
“Everyone deserves to be loved,” my mother would tell me.
But then again not everyone has a chance to fall in love.
“Any questions?” Mr Grayfield asks.
“What is the mark allocation?” A perky ginger head asks with a cheerful grin.
“Oh yes, I almost forgot to mention it,” he says, grateful that someone has reminded him. “This assignment will out of three-hundred marks, which is only about forty-five to fifty percent of this semester’s SBA.”