Page 9 of Mine To Hunt

Iblink awake to sunlight slicing through the curtains, my head heavy and my mouth dry like I've swallowed sand. The clock on the nightstand glows 10:05, and panic hits me instantly because my first class started twenty minutes ago. I have no idea when I finally drifted off last night, but it was close to dawn.

Ryan's side of the bed is empty and cold, the sheets rumpled where he must have gotten up hours earlier for work. I throw off the covers and stumble to the bathroom, my bare feet slapping against the floor as if that noise alone will make up for lost time.

The mirror shows a mess. Copper strands spill around my face in tangled waves from a restless night. Dark circles bruise the skin beneath my light eyes, making me look like I’ve aged ten years overnight.

I don't have time to dwell on it, so I crank the shower hot and step under the spray, letting the water pound against my skin until some of the fog clears. Soap lathers quick over my arms and legs, and I scrub my face twice, hoping it washes away the exhaustion clinging to me like a second skin.

By the time I step out, towel-drying my hair roughly, the steam has fogged the glass, but I wipe it clear and stare at myself again, wondering how one bad night can unravel everything so completely.

I dress in a hurry, pulling on a brown shirt that buttons up loose over my chest and a pair of blue jeans that hug my hips without much fuss. Comfort matters more than style when you're already late, and this outfit feels like armor, simple enough to hide the chaos inside.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the sight stops me cold. The sink overflows with last night's dishes, plates crusted with sauce and forks tangled in a pile that Ryan clearly ignored before heading out.

A half-empty carton of eggs sits on the counter beside a plate with crumbs and streaks of dried yolk, the smell of toasted bread still lingering in the air. Proof he made himself eggs and toast, but didn’t bother with anything for me.

No note, no text, just the quiet accusation that I'm an afterthought even in the basics. My stomach growls, but anger mixes with it, a sharp twist that makes me clench my jaw as I grab my bag from the hook by the door.

The ride to St. Alden flies by in a blur of red lights and my own ragged breaths, my mind replaying the texts from yesterday like a loop I can't pause.

By the time I reached university, I sprint across the quad, my shirt sticks to my back from the effort. Prof. Kingsley's lecture hall looms ahead, the door half-open with voices spilling out, and I slip inside just as he's mid-sentence, his voice carryingthat steady rhythm that usually grounds me but today feels like another weight.

"...and that's why sensory details aren't just fluff. They're the hooks that pull readers into the character's skin." Prof. Kingsley says, pacing with a marker in hand, scribbling notes on the board about smell and touch evoking memory.

Heads turn as I edge in, the door creaking louder than it should, and heat floods my face because everyone knows I'm late, including him.

“Iris.” He says, not missing a beat. His eyes flick up at me over the rim of his glasses, that tight, polite smile already hinting at irritation. “How nice of you to join us.”

He lets the silence stretch just a little too long before adding, “Since you’ve decided to arrive now, perhaps you’d care to enlighten us, how can a single scent unravel an entire narrative thread?”

"I'm so sorry, Professor." I mutter, my voice barely above the rustle of pages as I weave to my seat in the back row. "I overslept. Won't happen again."

The class murmurs, a few stifled laughs that sting like salt in a cut, and I drop into the chair next to Maddie, who shoots me a wide-eyed look but says nothing yet.

He nods, waving it off with a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Apology accepted. But let's hear it. Scent as a narrative device. Quick take."

I fumble for words, my bag thumping to the floor as I settle, but the question pulls something loose in me despite the fog.

"It's a subtle power, right? Like in Proust with the madeleine. One whiff yanks you back to a moment you thought was buried, forcing the character to confront what they've been avoiding." My voice steadies as I speak, the familiar ground of writing centering me for a second, even if my heart still races from the rush.

"Precisely." Prof. Kingsley replies, tapping the board with his marker. "It grounds the abstract in the tangible. Keep that in mind for your next drafts. Make us feel the decay, not just describe it."

He turns back to the class, diving into examples from Woolf. The attention shifts away from me, a small mercy.

Maddie leans over as I unzip my bag for a notebook, her whisper urgent but soft. "Ree, you look wrecked. What happened?"

"Later." I whisper back, forcing a shrug even as relief floods me at her nearness.

But as I slide my chair in fully, something catches under my foot. A folded chit of paper, wedged against the desk leg like it was waiting for me. My fingers tremble slightly as I pick it up, unfolding it with a glance around to make sure no one's watching.

The words hit me in neat black ink.‘I know you skipped breakfast. Here's something for you.’

My breath catches, sharp and painful, because taped to the bottom of the desk is a small wrapped sandwich. Turkey on wheat, from the canteen look, with a slice of cheese peeking out. How? Who?

The questions explode in my chest, terror blooming hot and immediate, making my skin prickle as if invisible eyes bore into me right there in the lecture hall.

I jolt upright without thinking, the chair scraping loud against the floor, and every head swivels my way, the room falling silent except for the echo of that noise.

"Iris?" Prof. Kingsley says, his voice cutting through the stares, concern etching his brow as he sets down the marker. "Everything alright back there?"