Ellen's Point of View
"
…light showers expected across the city today, with temperatures steady through the
evening—
"
The voice of the news anchor zones in and out as I pick Clara's note, shoving it in my bag.
"Ellen, grab your breakfast before you leave.
"
Our housekeeper half yells as she sees me dashing out of my room.
"I'm fine Nana.
" I reply.
I am avoiding breakfast as much as avoiding my father for as long as I can. Getting on that
dinning room means enduring his endless talks and judgy eyes.
As I step out of the house, I realize the weather was chiller than I thought. I desperately try to
tug my coat over my frame.
The drive to campus takes ten minutes. When I arrive, the corridors are alive. Papers tacked on
bulletin boards, laughter echoing between walls, perfume and colognes hanging in the air like
fog.
It feels the same. And yet, it doesn't.
I thought coming back would make things easier. That routine would distract me. Instead, the
familiar faces, the clatter of heels, the rush between classes and it feels too loud for my head.
"Ellen!" I hear a shriek down the hall.
I manage a small smile as Sophia and her pink curls bounces along her cute movement.
"Finally!" She says, linking her arm through mine before I can speak.
"You took forever.
"
"I had to take a break Sophia,
" I deadpan.
She blinks, then grins.
"And now you're resurrected. Perfect timing.
"
Marlon who followed behind, snorts.
"Dark humor before noon. Impressive.
"
Sophia shoots him a look.
"You laugh at worse things.
"
"I have taste,
" he replies, smirking.
Their banter sparks a small smile from me. Sophia notices and gasps like she's just seen a
miracle.
"Oh my God, she smiled! Write this down, Marlon. Ellen Dumas has officially rejoined the land of
the living.
"
"Barely,
" I mutter.
Marlon hums.
"She'll have a relapse before lunch.
"
Sophia swats him on the arm.
"Don't be rude, she's grieving!"
"I'm being supportive,
" he says.
"Sarcasm is my love language.
"
They start arguing again. I tune them out, oddly grateful for the noise.
They've been my friends since first year, my only friends as they claim and sometimes I wonder
why they still bother. I don't give much back.
The hallway crowd thickens near the notice board. A group of girls giggle, pointing at a new
announcement pinned at the top.
Sophia gasps dramatically.
"Oh my God. Have you seen this?"
Marlon groans.
"Here we go.
"
She ignores him and clutches my arm tighter.
"We have a new professor in the Department of
Philosophy. He's from Italy. Italy, Ellen.
"
Marlon raises a brow.
"And this matters because?"
"Because,
" she says, dragging the word,
"he's going to be drop dead hot. I'm talking smoky kind
of hot.
"
I arch a brow.
"You don't even know what he looks like Sophia.
"
"He's Italian, baby. That's satisfactory enough.
"
Marlon looks skyward.
"God, take me instead.
"
Sophia ignores him again, leaning close to the board.
"Professor A. Martinelli. From the
University of Padua. Sounds expensive, right?"
I shrug. The name doesn't ring a bell. Probably just another ambitious academic who'll stay a
semester, then leave for somewhere better.
Marlon hums.
"Martinelli sounds like a brand of overpriced whisky.
"
Sophia rolls her eyes.
"You're allergic to life itself.
"
"I'm allergic to delusion.
"
We continue walking to the lecture hall.
The hall fills quickly. Whispered gossip circles through the rows. Some persons behind me
mentions the professor again, and I give a huff.
Anything and everything excites them here and it kind of pisses me lightly.
I sit beside Sophia while Marlon takes the row behind us, his feet already propped on my head
rest.
Sophia fumbles with her face then nudges me.
"Do I look okay?"
"You winged a perfect eyeliner to an ethics lecture.
"
"So?"
"So, you look like you're auditioning for the runway.
"
"Good. He needs to notice me.
"
Marlon leans forward.
"If you flirt with a professor, I'm calling security on you.
"
"Oh please,
" she says.
"Like you won't flirt with him first.
"
"Only for the grade,
" he replies coyly.
I shake my head in amusement and that same time, the door opens.
The dean walks in, followed by a tall man in a charcoal suit. The chattering dies immediately.
I look down, half listening as the dean speaks. Something about collaboration between
departments, international research, excellence in teaching. The words blend together in my
subconscious.
My pen taps against the page as I doodle caricature.
From the corner of my vision, I feel a presence, sharp, contained.
The air seems to shift slightly, thinner.
I raise my eyes for a second.
He's standing beside the dean. The stranger from the corridor.
My best bet is, this would be the supposed Professor Martinelli.
He looks composed, unreadable, his posture straight, every movement seems robotic. When he
speaks, his voice carries easily, low but precise. He thanks the dean. He mentions future work.
He doesn't smile.
His gaze sweeps across the room once. Slow. Measuring. Then it stops.
On me.
For a fraction of a second, I'm sure I imagine it.
But I don't. He looks familiar. Strikingly familiar.
His eyes linger, sharp as light cutting through glass.
I quickly look down again, my throat tight.
How weird.
Based on the distance between us, and my shortsightedness, I can't tell for sure if I have seen
him before.
He continues speaking, voice smooth as if nothing happened. The room listens. My pulse
doesn't.
When the short introduction ends, students start whispering again. The dean dismisses us with
a smile.
I keep my head low, organizing my stuffs as my friends bicker by my side.
Relief floods me like air after drowning for some reason.
Maybe that's it. Maybe it's over. Maybe I was imagining things.
Because there is no way I know that tall figure that was just standing in front of us.