WebNovels

Chapter 15 - Whispers

The rest of my Tuesday drifts by in a blur. I hit up two more classes—Intro to PR, then Media Law and Ethics, but I'm barely there. I jot notes, nod when it feels right, but my brain keeps looping back to that lecture hall. To the way he looked at me, like I'd said something important.

By the time I make it back to my dorm, it's pushing five. My roommate's stretched out across her bed, headphones in, phone glued to her hand. She glances up as I walk in and slides one bud out.

"How was the first day?"

I shrug. "Long. Not bad, though."

"I'm Riley, by the way. I don't think we formally met."

"Avery."

She grins. "I know. I googled you. Two million followers? That's wild."

I roll my eyes. "Just Instagram."

"Just Instagram," she echoes, then laughs. "Girl, you should brag. That's huge."

I toss my bag on the desk. "What's your major?"

"Film production. I want to direct someday. The kind of stuff that makes people squirm."

"Sounds… interesting."

She eyes me. "You're Communications, right?"

"Yeah. Media psych."

Riley perks up. "Oh, are you in Parker's class?"

My stomach does a weird little flip. "Yeah. Why?"

She sits up, like she's about to spill a secret. "He's a legend. That's what everyone says."

"What do they say?"

"That he's brilliant. And hot. And kind of a jerk." She gives a little shrug. "All the best ones are."

I try to sound chill. "He seemed fair. Demanding, but fair."

"Just wait. My friend had him last year. He made her rewrite a paper four times. Four. She nearly quit."

"Did she pass?"

"Barely. A minus. She said it was the hardest grade she's ever fought for."

I pull out my laptop and open the assignment: 500 words on social media performance.

"Starting homework already?" Riley asks.

"Might as well."

She returns to her music, and I stare at the blank doc. Analyze your last ten posts. What persona are you projecting? I scroll through my feed, every photo a carefully selected story. The version of me I want people to buy: that I'm fine, that I've moved on, that nothing gets to me. But it's all for show. Just like Parker said.

I start typing.

Wednesday's a mess of new syllabi and awkward intros. Four classes today—Digital Media Studies, Interpersonal Comms, Rhetoric, and a seminar on storytelling. In between, I edit a post, update my stories, answer DMs. My following's climbing. The campus content is killing.

Lunchtime, I'm alone in the dining hall, laptop open, trying to focus on my reflection paper. But the girls at the next table are impossible to ignore.

"I'm so nervous for Parker's class tomorrow," one says.

"Is he that bad?"

"Not bad—just intense. My sister had him. She said he can see right through you. Knows when you're faking it, when you haven't read, when you're coasting. He'll call you out. In front of everyone."

"That sounds rough."

"It is. But if he likes you? He'll mentor you. Write recs. Hook you up with internships."

"How do you get him to like you?"

"Be smart. Be on top of your game. And whatever you do, don't try to flirt with him."

They giggle.

"People actually do that?"

"Every semester. He always shuts it down. Brutally."

My chest tightens. I'm not trying to flirt. Except, honestly, maybe I am. That's kind of the point.

"He's hot, though," the other girl says.

"Oh, totally. But he's dangerous. My sister said he dated a grad student once. It got messy. So now he doesn't let anyone get close."

"Probably for the best. Dating students? Bad move."

"Unless you're into older guys with issues."

They laugh, then drift into other topics. I try to focus, but their words stick. He's dated a student. It ended badly. He keeps his distance. I should see the warning sign, but instead I just feel more sure. If he's done it before, it's not impossible. I just have to be patient. Play it smarter.

I finish my paper that night, comb through it for mistakes, cut every extra word. It's good—clear, honest, sharp. I upload it two days early, right before midnight. Riley's passed out. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about tomorrow. Second lecture. Will he look at me again? Was Tuesday all in my head?

My phone buzzes. DM from a stranger: you're in parker's class right? careful, he's hot but he'll wreck your GPA if you're not careful.

I ignore it. Another DM: saw you in media psych! let's study sometime. Delete. Another: are you single? asking for a friend.

I turn off my phone, toss it aside, and try to sleep.

Thursday, I wake up early. Spend way too long getting ready for a 9 AM class. Black jeans, white blouse, hair loose, makeup minimal but planned. I look like I belong. Not like a girl with a scheme.

Riley groans as I head out. "You look nice. Date?"

"Just class."

"For a 9 AM? You're intense."

Campus is quiet, just the early birds and the try-hards. I grab an oat latte, check Instagram—last night's post is blowing up. Study aesthetic, coffee, laptop, caption: week one grind. Comments are wild.

study goals college looks easy with you obsessed with your vibe

If only they knew.

I head to Dodd Hall. Lecture hall's more crowded than Tuesday. I grab my seat—third row, aisle. Open my laptop. The girls in front are talking.

"I'm only here for the credit," one says.

"Same. But at least Parker's hot."

"Heard he's a jerk."

"Hot jerks are still hot."

They dissolve into giggles.

More students file in. The room fills. Nine o'clock. The side door swings open. Ethan. Same presence as before, confident, unbothered. He sets up, then faces us.

"Good morning." The room goes silent.

"I hope you all did the reading. Today, Goffman: the presentation of self." He clicks the slide. "Who can sum up Goffman's main point?"

A few hands. He picks one. Lecture starts. I take notes, but I'm watching him—the way he moves, the way he looks at people. Does he look at me longer, or am I just hoping?

Halfway through, he asks, "How many of you curate your online presence on purpose?"

Most hands, including mine.

"And how many think that's dishonest?"

Hands drop. Some awkward shifting.

"Interesting," he says. "We all admit we're performing, but resist the idea we're lying."

He scans the room. His eyes land on me.

"Miss Lane. You've got two million followers. Would you call your online self authentic?"

My heart stutters. Everyone looks at me.

"I… I think it's a version of authenticity. It's still me, just edited."

"How so?"

"I show what I want people to see. The parts that fit the story."

"What story is that?"

I swallow. "That I'm moving on. Figuring it out."

He's unreadable, but I see something flicker. "Are you moving on?"

"I'm trying."

A pause. The whole class is watching.

"That's honest," he says. "More than most would be."

He moves on. I'm still stuck in that moment, he put me on the spot, but I didn't break. The rest of the lecture is a blur. Goffman. Masks. Perception.

I barely remember the end. "Reflection papers due by midnight," Ethan calls as people pack up. "Don't leave it to the last minute."

I pack up slow. The room empties. I'm about to leave when I hear, "Miss Lane. Stay after class, please."

My stomach drops. Eyes turn my way. The girls in front exchange a look.

"Sure," I say.

The room clears out. The door clicks closed. It's just me and him.

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