The classroom door didn't just open —
It creaked, like it had seen some shit and didn't want to witness whatever was coming next.
Heads turned.
Voices stopped mid-sentence.
Even the fluorescent lights above seemed to flicker nervously as she walked in.
And Elija's entire nervous system short-circuited.
Her heart? Gone. Dead. Raptured.
Her brain? Loudly screaming "RUN" while also googling "how to legally marry someone who terrifies you."
Her soul? Already writing tragic poetry about forbidden eye contact and dangerous women in high heels.
Because walking in — like the classroom owed her money and an apology — was Aurora Anderson.
The new English teacher.
Except this woman didn't look like she taught English.
She looked like she haunted castles, wrote manifestos in blood, and broke hearts for sport.
Black pencil skirt. Silk blouse with buttons that looked like they'd never been stressed by mortal hands. A wine-colored mouth that could curse a man and convert a lesbian in the same breath. And eyes — sharp, ancient, alive — like they'd been there the day Eve bit the apple and just watched.
Elija blinked.
And realized — fuck.
This was her.
The woman she'd slammed into in the hallway that morning.
The woman who smelled like expensive ink and moral ambiguity.
At the time, Elija had muttered something like "sorry" and bolted like a raccoon caught in the kitchen light.
Now?
Now she wanted the floor to eat her alive.
Aurora walked slowly — those muted heels hitting the tile like a war drum played by Satan's personal assistant — and didn't say a word.
Didn't need to.
Her entrance had already launched fifteen sexual awakenings and two identity crises.
She carried nothing.
No bag. No books.
Not even a goddamn attendance sheet.
Just herself. Just that vibe. That "I once set fire to a man's career with a sonnet" vibe.
She stopped at the front of the room, turned, and let her gaze sweep over them like a laser-guided missile. Calculating. Merciless. Hot.
And then it happened.
She looked at Elija.
Dead in the eye.
And lingered.
Too long.
Like she remembered.
Like she knew Elija had been the clumsy idiot who ran face-first into her chest six hours earlier.
Elija's stomach did an Olympic-level backflip.
Her palms? Sweaty.
Her face? Redder than the devil's dick.
Next to her, Lorena inhaled sharply. "Oh. Oh no. She's hot-hot," she whispered, like someone spotting a supernova through a telescope.
Elija didn't respond. Couldn't. Words had abandoned her. Language was a lie. All that existed was that look and that very, very inconvenient heartbeat hammering in her ears.
Aurora finally spoke.
"Sit," she said.
Just one word.
But the way she said it?
Like a spell. A commandment. Like she expected the walls to obey, too.
The entire class sat down in absolute silence, like God had walked in and handed out midterms.
Then Aurora spoke again.
"Quietly."
Damn.
Elija felt her soul separate from her body like it wanted nothing to do with this situation.
Lorena leaned in, voice low and quivering with chaos. "El. EL. Do you think she kills people and buries the bodies under the poetry section of an indie bookstore?"
"Lorena. Shut the fuck up."
"I bet she's got exes buried under floorboards. Victorian exes."
"Shut. Up."
"I bet she smells like vengeance and forbidden lesbian affairs in 1892."
Elija bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. If she started laughing now, she'd never stop. And if she made eye contact with Aurora again, her gay soul would simply exit her body and ascend.
Aurora — completely unfazed — walked to the front of the classroom like a queen arriving at a war council.
"I'm not your friend," she said, her voice smooth and low, like silk-wrapped razors.
"I'm not here to validate your feelings. I won't follow you on social media. And I won't pretend to care about your caffeine dependencies or chronic identity crises."
Someone in the back audibly choked.
"If you want sympathy," Aurora continued, turning to write her name on the board with perfect, looping cursive, "go cry to the guidance counselor. I'm here for literature. And if you can't handle Shakespeare, that's fine. You can always drop out and pursue your lifelong dream of becoming a TikTok micro-influencer with a book allergy."
The silence was absolute.
Then Lorena, in a whisper so low it was basically psychic:
"She's gonna murder me with a metaphor and I'll say thank you."
Elija was gripping her pen so hard it might snap. Her knees felt weak. Not like in the "aww, cute crush" way — more like "I just looked at Medusa and now my gender is shattered" kind of way.
Aurora turned back to face the room. And again — again — her eyes landed on Elija.
Sharp. Focused.
Like she was trying to remember if she'd seen her in a past life… or just wanted to see her after class.
Elija immediately looked down at her notebook.
Which was blank.
Like her brain.
Like her fucking will to live.
"Fuck," she muttered under her breath.
Lorena elbowed her.
"Chapter one," Aurora said crisply, "is betrayal. Start reading Julius Caesar. Page nine. And try not to disappoint me more than you already have."
But her eyes—those God-forsaken X-ray, poetry-scented, basilisk eyes—were already scanning the classroom like she was hunting for a soul to pierce.
And then… she stopped.
Directly on Elija.
Eye contact.
Full force.
No mercy.
It hit like a taser to the heart and a punch to the libido. Elija froze. Her lungs? Boycotting oxygen. Her brain? Buffering like a Windows 98 startup screen. Something ancient and electric sparked in the air between them—definitely not the "student-meets-teacher" variety. More like "Greek tragedy meets gay panic."
Then, casually, Aurora turned her head. Like that psychic lightning strike of eye contact hadn't just sent Elija into a spiraling existential crisis.
"We'll begin," she said, walking to the whiteboard with slow, deliberate grace. "Not with Caesar."
Pause.
"We'll start with Dickinson. Emily."
She uncapped a marker and wrote on the board in sharp, all-caps strokes:
"Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me."
Her handwriting looked like it could murder someone in cursive.
She turned back to the class, eyes sharp enough to peel paint. "Let's talk, children. About how life doesn't belong to you. But English? English belongs to me."
Lorena whispered to Elija under her breath. "Is this an English class or the entrance exam to Hell's Honors program?"
"Shut up," Elija hissed, her cheeks still warm from the earlier eye contact trauma.
Aurora walked slowly to the desk at the front of the class—but never touched it. Just stood near it, arms crossed, as if ready to vanish or start a duel at any given moment.
"Now," she said, voice cold, clear, and holy-shit-alarming. "Who can tell me why Dickinson chose that particular image for death?"
Silence. Thick. Dread-laced.
Aurora's eyebrow twitched.
"You're not that stupid," she added, "Just... flirting with it."
Lorena raised her hand.
Elija tried to stop her. Grabbed her wrist. "Don't," she whispered. "This woman eats sarcasm for breakfast and poops out criticism."
Too late.
Aurora saw her.
"Yes. Rebel girl. Enlighten us."
Lorena stood, smirking like she was about to slap God.
"Well," she began, crossing her arms. "Maybe because death is the only man who actually shows up on time."
A beat of silence. Then—
Laughter. Awkward, chaotic, scandalized.
Elija facepalmed so hard she nearly broke her own nose. "I don't know her," she muttered.
Aurora tilted her head. And then—
She smiled.
A terrifying, sharp-edged Mona Lisa smile. The kind of smile that suggested she could write your eulogy in iambic pentameter while sipping espresso from your tears.
"Insolent. Cynical. Almost wise," she said, voice cool and amused. "Sit down."
Lorena dropped into her chair with a mock salute. "Thanks, mom," she muttered.
Aurora ignored it. Barely.
She placed both hands on the desk and leaned forward slightly. Her gaze swept over the classroom like a goddess surveying her underachieving disciples.
"If you think literature is just sad poems about feelings," she said, "then I hope life hits you fast. Because life does not DM you sweet nothings. Life screams. And more often than not—"
She paused.
"—it does so silently."
Then—of course—her gaze zeroed in on Elija.
Like a sniper.
"You," Aurora said, her voice as soft as it was dangerous. "The one who runs. The one who dodges my eyes like they might burn. What is your death, Elija?"
The words hung in the air like a noose.
"And when," she added, voice now razor-sharp, "did it stop for you?"
The classroom turned.
Every head.
Every pair of eyes.
Even Lorena, who was normally first in line to crack a joke or start a classroom riot, was dead silent. Like someone had pressed the mute button on her brain.
Elija didn't speak.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't flinch.
But her lips—barely parted—trembled. Just slightly. A fracture.
And then her eyes…
Lit.
Not with fire. Not with rage. But with something heavier. Sadder. Deeper. Like the burning edge of memory about to bleed.
"When I was fifteen," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't want to live anymore."
The words were lead bullets, falling slow and heavy into the room.
Someone gasped.
Lorena actually flinched.
"But…" Elija continued, her voice cracking, but not breaking, "Life stopped for me instead. Like it was watching. Waiting. And then…"
She paused. Swallowed hard.
"…something brought me back."
Not someone.
Something.
The silence in the room had weight now. It pressed down on every chest like grief. The air itself mourned.
Aurora blinked. Slowly. Thoughtfully.
Then she smiled—not her usual sardonic smirk or soul-melting smolder.
A real smile.
Still terrifying.
Still razor-edged.
But real.
"Well," she said. "You might actually turn into a person someday."
A beat.
And then the smile widened just enough to make it confusing.
Terrifyingly comforting. Comfortingly terrifying.
"Homework," Aurora continued, stepping back like a queen leaving the courtroom. "Write a letter to Death. Because one day, she will write you back. And trust me—the better you start that conversation first."
The bell rang.
No one moved.
Not a soul.
They just sat there, stunned. As if waking up from a fever dream in slow motion.
Aurora turned her back and walked toward the door. Her heels were the only sound in the room, ticking like a countdown.
But just before she stepped into the hallway—
"Damn," Lorena muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear, "she's like if depression had tits and tenure."
Elija slapped a hand over her mouth, choking on a laugh.
Aurora didn't turn. But her voice floated back like a ghost.
"Miss Lorena," she called, dry as bone. "I'd suggest you write two letters. One to Death. One to a therapist."
Elija doubled over in laughter. Half in horror. Half in awe.
Lorena grinned like a maniac. "Guess who's gonna write them both in a glitter pen."
"Jesus Christ," Elija hissed, wiping her eyes. "You're gonna get us killed."
"If I die, I die fabulous," Lorena replied, already pulling out a sheet of rainbow paper. "And if Death's hot, I'm shooting my shot."
Elija finally stood up, the heaviness of her confession clinging to her ribs, but softened now. Muted under the hum of aftershock laughter and that impossible warmth that Aurora's crooked smile had left behind.
She didn't understand what had just happened.