Alora Smith is a dreamer. With her head always in a book and her sights on her dream to become a writer, it might seem like her head is always in the clouds. But she never gives up on her dreams.
What she doesn't see in her dreams, however, is a ce...
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Every single eye in the room was on me. I suppose I deserved it considering how late I was, but my mind seemed immune to that reasoning as my heart dropped down into my shoes. With a tight lipped smile, I found a seat close to the front of the class. The professor seemed to not be teaching at the moment, looking down and gathering some of his papers together.
Grateful for this undeserved time to catch my bearings, I grabbed the notebook I bought that is designated for this class and my pencil pouch. Despite my hiccup that morning, I was eager to learn and to be there. My back straightened and I pushed my red hair out of my face a bit.
It's been my dream to become an author since my mother would read me bedtime stories as a little girl. I wanted to be able to take people to another place just with my words. To transport them from this sometimes cruel world. To pass on this gift as the authors of my favorite books have done to me.
I should have been torn down by my circumstances. My mother passed away while I was in high school, and my father is slowly killing himself by drinking and smoking away all the pain. But I kept getting up. I kept getting up because I had somewhere to look forward to, I had mystical lands and lush romances to immerse myself in when life felt like it was too much. And when I would return from this other universe, I'd be centered and sure of the beauty of the world despite the horrors that are in it. Some called it escapism, I called it mercy.
"Okay here we go, sorry." who I assumed to be Professor Hiddleston said. He gathered a stack of paper and straightened them on his desk. I was a bit taken back by the professor, when he raised his head. He's very.... handsome to put it lightly. With short dark brown hair, and a solid, hard jawline decorated with a manly stubble.
He handed the person in front of me a stack of papers and told him to take one and pass it down. When he got to me, however, he seemed to skip a beat for a moment. I took this moment to look into his eyes. His beautiful eyes, so unbelievably blue like aquamarine. How on earth is it possible to be this perfect?
My ogling was cut short however, when he shook his head as if to clear something out of it and handed me a stack of papers and said, "Take one and pass it down."
The class seemed to pass by quickly. It was engaging partly because writing is my favorite subject and partly because of Professor Hiddleston's teaching style. He didn't waste time and got write down to the thick of it. We analyzed a short story that ended abruptly and wrote a page of our own that continues it. Our own special endings I suppose.
I loved how passionate my peers were and even though I didn't share, I loved hearing their endings. I was fascinated by how many different interpretations and preferences there were and how a story could mean something different for everyone.
However, I was distracted a bit by Professor Hiddleston and how attractive he was. But I forced myself not to think about it, because I came to this college for one reason and one reason only. To take me a step closer to my dream of becoming a writer. And I couldn't have my grades fluctuating based on a childish crush on a professor who probably received advances by most of the student body already.
