The sound of the rapid clicking of your blue pen calmed your excitement.

A hazy middle of September was outside the door, and from your seat, you observed the little, clear raindrops draining on the window. They looked peaceful, like your inner expectations for your mark in your psychology test.

You could sense your result but not yet see.

After the accident with the elevator, Professor Ren came back to school the next week as if nothing had happened. Everyone forgot the story and buried it under the ground. Finn wanted to play detective, but quickly let it go.

Professor Ren always held his classes in the order. Sometimes he used words you were sure even Rose didn't know.

Your mind settled in thoughts about how his stupid face looked like when he sat there a couple of days ago, correcting your test. You imagined him being impressed and surprised by how you solved the tricky questions correctly. Professor Ren would realize his mistake and apologize to you for how faulty it was to underestimate your abilities in school.

Behind you sat Rose, reading "Pride and Prejudice," the book you still haven't touched, since Ms. Rey announced you would read it in class.

The heels of Professor Ren's black leather shoes rattled on the wooden floor as he walked through the classroom. He was holding the corrected tests and distributed them to each student without giving them any feedback.

When he walked up to your desk, you couldn't help but smile, waiting for him to apologize. You were optimistic. A little smile couldn't hurt him.

But looking at his stiff expression, the disappointment in his eyes behind his glasses was more clear to see than a raindrop. He put your test on your desk and walked to the blackboard.

You lowered your head, and with crinkled eyes, Professor Ren's beautiful handwriting was visible in red, except the number on top of the right side was the opposite of beautiful. Your mouth went slowly wide open, and your stomach curled up, nearly making you throw up.

You could feel what you saw in Professor Ren's eyes.

"I'm not impressed. I knew you would disappoint me," Professor Ren said coolly, face directed at the class.

Casually, he leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

You had a good feeling when you first handed in your test, but now it looked like you couldn't even trust your inner feelings anymore. You did not expect your test to be full of your professor's red marker. He either did not know how to count or correct properly. You were sure about that. It couldn't be because of you. You were sure he intended to give you such a mark out of pure despise for you and your presence. No other explanation was reasonable.

You had prepared for this test to prove to Professor Ren how false his assumption about you was, and now your result confirmed his theory. All he said about you that day at the bar was true.

You turned around, seeing Rose happy and fulfilled with her average mark. In the back seemed like Finn and Poe didn’t even care what marks they got. It impressed you by how fast their friendship developed. They both were giggling in silence and comparing their answers. Next to them, you felt pretty brainless with your unsatisfying grades.

You promised your mother that your marks would improve. But with this test, you had disappointed yourself, your mother, and your psychology professor.

The bell rang, and everyone left the class except you. Your legs didn't have the strength to get up and move. You smoothed down your skirt and noticed a small hole in your tights. Silently, you cursed and rubbed your forehead. You needed answers about your mark, and the only human being who could explain them to you was the selfish man across the line of your desk.

It looked like Professor Ren wasn't planning on leaving the classroom, either. He rolled up his sleeves from his baby-blue shirt, that brought out his dark hair on his muscular arms, and his black trousers balanced with his hair color.

You had seen this scene before. It looked familiar. The last time you were alone with Professor Ren in a room, it ended up with your back against the lockers. Hopefully, today, it wouldn't end up with you hanged on the door.

On his table lay piles of papers. Head burrowed, and with a concentrated gaze, he wrote something on them.

"The lesson ended almost five minutes ago, Miss [Y/Surname]. You can go cry about your mark at home," he commented without empathy. With his heavy eyes, he didn't look up at you, and he wouldn't.

Furious, you rose from your seat. "I want to know why."

You tight in your lips and tried not to swallow the confidence you always had when you didn't accept your mark on the other subjects. But this time was different. Arguing with him would take a long time, and in the end, he would probably reduce your mark to worse.

"Sit back down," he ordered calmly, still not looking at you.

The confidence disappeared in a heartbeat, and like a dog, you obeyed and slowly sat back in your chair. Professor Ren lifted his head, raised his eyebrows, and leaned back with crossed arms and a heavy breath.

"Why what?"

"Why did I get such a bad mark?" you complained as you handed him your paper. "I believe you've made an error grading my test."

He took his glasses off and leaned forward with haunting eyes.

"Watch your tone," he said gravely, and pointed with the temple of his glasses at you. "I don't make mistakes."

He put his glasses next to his documents, rubbed his tired eyes, and twisted dubious the paper around.

"Have you read through it?"

You both knew the answer. No, you didn't. If you would, you probably wouldn't have reacted that way either, so you dropped your eyes and shook your head.

"That's what I thought."

He leaned back, crossed one leg over another with his fingers touching his lips in deep convictions.

"If you had, you would have noticed that you forgot to look at the back of the paper."

Your gaze jumped back to his. Of course, you had forgotten the back of the test. That's why you had finished the test so quickly. Rose was still writing when you had already handed it in.

Shamefully, you looked to the left at the window and noticed the rain getting heavier and louder. You didn't have an umbrella with you. Only your hat could cover some drops, so you hoped that the rain outside was over soon.

You pinched the bridge of your nose and placed your hands on the table, observing your fingernails.

"That's not the only reason the mark is so low, am I right, professor?"

He nodded and propped himself on his elbows with his hands pressed together.

"You didn't learn the characteristics of behaviorism, and your conclusion to classical conditioning was weak. You answered every question with no critical thinking and no details."

He flung the paper to your desk and tapped his fingers on the table. He enjoyed watching your misery that was slowly showing on your cheeks.

Weak was not a word to describe you. You weren't weak. But in his eyes, you were.

"Pavlov would be ashamed of you," he added, straightening up and packing his thick folders.

The conversation was over. Now it was your turn to accept your failure and move on. Professor Ren's insults did not thrill you. You were already used to them.

You rolled your shoulders and scanned with your eyes the sorrowful test that lay on your desk. Professor Ren thought he was right, but you strongly believed he was wrong. Your dislike for him and his way of showing you how much he felt the same way about you made it harder for you to imagine that in the end, it was your fault and not his.

And that made you bite your inner cheek until you could slowly taste the blood on your tongue. Not seeing the questions on the back of the paper was stupid of you, and you admitted your own fault. But for the rest, you deserved better than what he gave you, so you kept assuming he graded you wrong on purpose to teach you a lesson.

To not mess with him. To finally give up and admit that you failed. And that motivated you to keep playing the little game.

You got up, put your bag on the desk, and started packing, just like Professor Ren.

"Well, at least, Pavlov would never grade me wrong just because he hates me," you replied sharply.

He stopped for a moment as his jaw tightened.

"Blaming other people for your own mistakes is a clear sign you avoid taking responsibility for your own failure. And you're avoiding some truth about yourself."

If you thought your mouth couldn't fall lower than it already did, to your surprise, it could. You felt exposed in so many ways. Like a naked, plastic skeleton standing in a classroom full of students.

Compared to the heavy rain outside, it didn't even look close to how you felt inside. It was like a mix of storms and a furious volcano that was ready to explode. Before you could blink an eye, the loud knock on the door interrupted your tongue.

You twisted your head to the side and recognized Ms. Rey standing by the doorway. From the look on her face, she seemed curious, wondering why a student and a teacher were standing alone in a classroom after school.

"Excuse me, am I interrupting?"

"No, no, of course not. Please come inside, Rey," Professor Ren answered kindly. "Miss. [Y/Surname] was just leaving anyway."

Your eyes and brows spread wide open. The tight breath, full of anger, vanished away. It surprised you to hear him speaking with such a kind and soothing tone to another human being. It's like he was a completely different type of person. Like he had switched from a horrible troll to a delightful fairy.

You took it as a chance to put on your hat, grab your bag and just leave. You narrowed your eyes on the floor when you hurriedly passed by Ms. Rey, who came towards you with a gentle smile.

Usually, you would greet Ms. Rey and return the smile like you always did when you saw her in the hallway. But you didn't feel like smiling.

You simply felt like throwing yourself on your bed and wrapping yourself up in a sushi roll with your warm, cozy blankets. You would make yourself a yummy hot chocolate and watch your comfort movie.

Your mother was still out of the country, so you had no one to go home to who would hug you tight and tell you it's okay, and everything will work out in the end.

Wake Up Alone - YouTube

The trip to your home on the bus went by quick. The seventh graders would climb on the bus like a crowd of wolves. They had nothing better to do than be loud and behaving like unrespectful little gangsters. They thought putting their dirty shoes on another seat made them look cool.

But thanks to your headphones and Amy Winehouse, you wouldn’t have to listen to their bullshit. You watched outside the window, not like you would see anything other than rain and fog, and thought about your lousy mark, graded by your terrible professor.

Your mood was melting like butter that lay too long in the sun. You looked at your phone and noticed how Finn send you a notification, who asked you how you did on the test.

You scoffed, ignored the message, and just kept looking out of the window. You had no interest in talking about your test, and neither your beloved psychology professor. You only wanted to drown in the song with empty thoughts and no worries.

At least for the rest of the week, the only chance to see Professor Ren was in the hallway. For now, you wouldn’t hear his name again for four days, and that sounded like a long, enjoyable time.

Finally, you arrived at home. You stood in front of the entrance door and looked around if somebody was near you, watching you from afar. You lifted the fuzzy doormat from the ground, picked up the key, and pressed it into the keyhole.

The idea of keeping a key under the doormat was risky. But staying under the bridge and drinking with the homeless wasn’t a plan for you if you would ever lose your keys.

You pushed the door open, and suddenly the door jammed against something hard.

For a moment, you wondered if there was a chest of drawers behind the door that you never noticed before. When you squeezed in between the door, you had discovered four big suitcases lying behind it.

A smile formed on your lips, and your mind fell in peace. Mother was at home. Finally.

For a good week, she flew away like she always did for her job. You couldn’t face time with her because she didn’t have time. To make it up to you, she sent you whenever you went to bed sweet goodnight messages.

You removed your headphones, took off your hat and your wet jacket. You couldn’t wait to see your mother again and hug her tight while inhaling her Dior J’adore perfume.

“I don’t know if we can trust her,” exclaimed a voice that came from the living room.

This voice did not belong to your mother. It was silvery and way too British.

Your footsteps became quieter, and you slowed down your speed. From the corner of the living room door, you tried to spy and recognize the person in your living room.

You saw the back of a woman with good posture and medium curled brown hair that was tied back in a fancy ponytail.

On the other side, you recognized your mother sitting on the couch with a glass of whiskey in her hand.

Your mother never drank alcohol. So, this was the first red flag. The only time she drinks is when she’s really stressed at work. And that was rare. At least that’s what you were told.

When you wanted to take a small step forward, you did not notice that water was dripping from your clothes, and a small puddle was forming on the floor. Unconsciously, you slid over the water and lost your balance. With your nose, you fell on the cold ceramic tiles right in front of the living room.

Ouch.

You heard a little yelp of shock from your mother, who remained seated with her other hand in front of her mouth.

You straightened up, a hand in the air. “I’m okay, Mom. I’m okay,” you muffled from the floor.

The pain on your nearly naked knees was tender, and you guessed that the hole in your tights stretched out. With trembling legs, you stood up while gripping onto the door handle and touched your nose to secure that nothing broke. Thank god no blood to be seen.

You raised your head and observed a beautiful woman standing right in front of you. Judging by her appearance, she was probably in her late forties, like your mother. But her incredibly symmetrical baby face and porcelain, unblemished skin made her look younger.

She had high cheekbones with little bangs on her forehead that were tossed to one side. A matte dark rose lipstick covered her pouty lips. With her kindly, eager blue eyes, she observed you. Her expressive brown eyebrows were probably the highlight of her face that made her stand out from all the other women in the world.

“Are you hurt?” she asked politely.

When you shook your head and peaked a smile, she raised one of her bushy brows. She didn’t look convinced and put a hand on her tight while tilting her head. She moved to the side and made space for you to enter the room.

“Honey, I’m so happy to see you!” Your mother grinned as she walked to you. She gave you a welcoming, warm hug and didn’t care that your clothes were all soaked.

You were used to her leaving you for months alone at home. You often wished that she would spend more time with you. But you knew she never had time because of her job that paid her a lot of money and gave you the life you had now.

You returned the hug and stayed with her in that position for a long minute. As she kissed you forcefully on the cheeks, you could smell her heavy breath of whiskey entering your nose.

She took a step next to you and put her arm around your shoulders. She stretched out her other arm to present to you the woman you have never seen.

“Meet Qi’ra,” announced your mother.

“You must be the girl I’ve heard so much about,” remarked the elegant lady jokingly.

You did not know what to answer to this statement. From all the new people you met over this month, the names were getting more unique.

Qi’ra wore a tan jacket and a black leather skirt with long black boots, and her simple necklace matched perfectly with her silver earrings. Your wandering gaze fell on her pinky finger, on which she wore a rather large, black ring with a green ball covered in black cracks. She reminded you of what people would call a femme fatale.

There weren’t many things your mother could have told her about you. Although, she probably mentioned the famous story of you crashing your bike in a car when you were only six years old. It was a painful experience and yet somehow a funny one.

It was probably the reason you still didn’t have your driver’s license. Your mother was afraid that one day you would make the same mistake again. Only this time, the chance of dying would be higher.

“There is something I need to tell you,” your mother said in a low tone as she moved to face you. Gently, she took your hands in hers and rubbed your knuckles with her thumbs. “Something important.”

And whoops, your smile disappeared. Your mother was good at quickly changing the subject. Her unexpected change of tone made you worried. Suddenly, she sounded insecure. She couldn’t look you straight in the eye. Whatever it was, she was afraid of it, and her eyes regularly bounced back to Qi’ra like she was unsure if she should tell you or not.

“I got myself in trouble. And because of that—“

Your mother paused in the sentence. The hesitation to inform you was tough for her. She was close to the edge of telling you, trying to push herself. She knew you had to know. You felt it. It was like a daughter’s instinct.

“You’re in danger…”

Well, this was not what you expected. A sudden coldness hit at the core. Your eyes froze open, and you raised your brows. Your mother was not the type of person who would joke around with serious stuff. Especially for your safety.

“I — I don’t think I understand,” you trembled.

She could hear the confusion in your voice. Many questions flew into your mind that you tried to explain yourself, but you couldn’t. You did not know where to start.

“What trouble? What are you talking about?”

Your mother took your cheeks in her hands as she looked at you. Her eyes were full of worry and sorrow. Her soft hands were warm, which made your cheeks burn with a mix of confusion and concern.

She tried to create a broken smile on her lips, and her little wrinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes, which were slowly filling up with shining tears. She looked one more time back at Qi’ra, who, with wide eyes, shook her head. Your mother’s gaze jumped back to you, and the shine disappeared.

“I can’t tell you what it is. At least not yet.” Suddenly, her tone had changed.

“So, you’re saying I’m in danger, but you can’t tell me why?” you snarled.

That got out of hand quickly. The situation became tenser for you. Your heart sped up, and you felt a heaviness arising in your lungs. It filled you with energy to know the answers to everything.

Your mother breathed and moved backward. As she passed Qi’ra, she signaled for her to take over. She sat down on the sofa and reached for her whiskey glass.

Qi’ra stepped closer to you and inhaled deeply.

“Listen, we are uncertain of what exactly is going to happen, and what danger we’re talking about, but no matter where you go or what you do, limit your trust in people,” she declared firmly.

“And why are you here? Why should I trust you, an unknown woman who just walked into my house?”

Your mother took a last sip from her whiskey and loudly placed the glass back on the coffee table.

“Because she is the only person you can trust in the whole wide world, and there is no one to whom I trust my life more than her!” your mother shouted.

Something told you it was not a good thing for your mother to drink.

She was getting annoyed by your curiosity and your will to know everything immediately.

You shrugged, curling your lips as you stepped back.

“Without her, I probably wouldn’t —“ she stopped for a brief second and looked at Qi’ra like she was more than relieved to know that she was here. By her side.

“Never mind. I wish not to hear another word about this. To make it quick, Qi’ra will live here with us until we solve this problem,” your mother confirmed. “End of discussion.”

And it was indeed the end of the discussion. Qi’ra would stay here and live with you and your mother in the same house you grew up in and eat from the same table.

You shouldn’t have a problem with that, but you did. A foreign woman came into your house as if she just fell from the moon, and was now suddenly drinking with your mother?

Your mother didn’t seem to have a doubt about her drunk decisions. In fact, she sounded more convinced of it when she was drunk than when she was sober. Maybe it was just your inner self-protection that made you not really trust Qi’ra and kind of dislike her. But then today, in your psychology class, you learned the lesson not to trust your feelings.

How can a woman working in marketing be in so much in danger that you got wrapped up in it?

It would be foolish of you to continue to argue or beg them to tell you. Not even your puppy eyes could make them change their mind. But maybe that was for the best.

You glanced at your mother one last time, who rested on the couch and held her heavy head in her hands. Qi’ra walked around the living room and admired your mother’s snow globes collection. Whenever your mother traveled to another country, she brought back a snow globe from there.

The only thing you wanted now was to be left alone to procedure the unexpected pressure. You lifted your chin and deeply inhaled from your nose. You let out a small huff as you turned around and walked away. With heavy footsteps, you marched up the stairs to your room and slammed the door behind you.

“Sooner or later, she has to know the truth, Qi’ra.”

“I know… but for now, she should not be aware of this information. What she does not know will not kill her.”