“Here.”
I look down at the line he’s pointing to—the exact sentence I almost deleted six different times before turning it in.
“I feel her regret, her pain, and I lived it with her.”
Heat creeps up my neck. I suddenly regret every autobiographical thought I accidentally let bleed into that story.
“You have a strong voice, Miss Sanderson,” he says, meeting my eyes again through his glasses. “One people actually want to read.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, still unable to take a compliment, but answering the way Dr. Reeves always told me to. Eventually, these comments won’t feel as monumental, but right now, it feels good.
He nods. He hasn't moved from the edge of the desk, and he's still holding the paper as he looks at me through his thick black glasses.
“Is everything alright?” he asks.
No. Everything is absolutely not alright. Someone I respect just told me I’m good at the one thing I’ve secretly been terrified I’m terrible at.
Instead of saying any of that, I nod too quickly. “Yeah. I just...” I tighten my grip on my laptop. “The story is actually based on something bigger I’ve been working on.”
“A bigger project?”
“A book,” I admit quietly. “Or at least... I think it is.”
His brow lifts slightly behind his glasses. “You’re writing a novel?”
Heat crawls up my neck. Saying it out loud makes it feel embarrassingly real. “Kind of. I started it over summer break.”
“And you’ve just been sitting on it?”
The question makes me laugh nervously. “Mostly avoiding it, actually.”
Professor Stephenson studies me for a second before holding the paper against the desk. “Would you let me read it?”
My brain completely stalls.
“You want to read it?”
“Yes.” His tone is matter of fact, like this shouldn’t surprise me nearly as much as it does. “You have instinct, Miss Sanderson. That’s harder to teach than technique.” He gestures lightly with the pages. “Most young writers overwrite emotion because they’re afraid the reader won’t feel it otherwise. You don’t. You trust the emotion enough to leave space around it.”
My knees knock. Nobody has ever talked about me like this. Not any teachers, at least. Zach says stuff like this all the time, but he’s already told me I could burp the alphabet and he’d be impressed, so it loses its meaning.
“I’d be happy to look at it whenever you’re comfortable sharing,” he adds. “No pressure.”
“Oh.” I adjust my laptop awkwardly against my chest. “Okay. I’ll... let you know when it’s ready.”
A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Good. And I’m looking forward to seeing what you do with this week’s assignment too.”
“Thank you, Professor Stephenson.”
The next class starts filtering into the room behind me, conversations and backpacks filling the silence between us.
“I’ll see you next week, Miss Sanderson.”
“See you next week.”
I leave the classroom feeling strangely weightless, and Stevie appears beside me the second I step into the hallway like she’s been summoned.
Her arm loops dramatically through mine as she steers us toward the exit of the English building. She hums quietly under her breath for a few seconds before finally looking at me.
