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Pride fills my veins. Knowing that I could’ve done so much more idiotic things and I didn’t is a big step for me. It feels like a reward.
Carefully—because I don’t want to crack it more—I deposit the phone on the bed, and I reach for the laptop’s charger and plug it in. Since I checked the rest of my apps, I just need to go over the emails to see if my professors sent something.
I’m even happy, mumbling a song as I wait for the laptop to turn on.
My heart drops when the screen comes back to life and shows me my Facebook page and a conversation with John R. Carter.
There’s a message from me.
“Here’s the thing, aszhole. Even tho I think ur an fucking prick, I can’t seem to stop thinking about you… you should probably ask for forgivness on ur knees, and put your awful tongue on me too…”
The message keeps going talking about the idiot that he is and that I’m still into him with a massive amount of abbreviations and mistakes. That without counting the obscene words and embarrassing confessions. I even asked him if his mother was high when she decided to give him that terrible name.
The worst thing?
It wasn’t sent from the fake account, but from my personal one, that has photos of me and my full name.
I put the laptop away and grab a pillow. Putting it over my face, I let out a scream full of stress, frustration, and self-hatred.
Chapter Seven
I’m exhausted, and I don’t know how I can keep myself awake in front of my laptop, trying to understand the explanations of the video that’s reproducing on the screen. I was up late searching for material that can help me pass the class, and I woke up early to continue the research. Unfortunately, my brain can’t comprehend the words or concepts. It’s like another language for me.
Overwhelmed with frustration, a groan escapes from the back of my throat. I don’t know what else to do. The Harpy never gives extra credits or additional lessons during the official office hours. All the study groups are full, and they chose to limit the free tutors to people with a lower GPA. I can’t afford to get a private tutor, even when I desperately need one. I can’t afford one, nor am I willing to ask my parents for extra money.
So, I need to learn this on my own, even if it seems impossible.
Pressing the spacebar, I play the video again, comparing what the person is explaining to my notes. I can’t spot any similarities or differences. Everything seems like a bunch of abstract concepts that I don’t understand.
Groaning, I lean over the dining table where I’ve been camping since yesterday to avoid getting distracted in my room. I rub soft circles on my temples in an attempt to relieve the accumulated pressure. Studying, ormy attempt to, chemistry is leaving me brainless. My head hurts from the lack of sleep and the effort I’ve been putting into learning the subject.
Pointless.This is pointless.
I still don’t get it, nor will I soon.
Yeah, I’m going to fail.
It doesn’t matter how hard I try. I can’t focus, and I’m not getting it. I’m just wasting my damn time doing this. I would drop out if it weren’t because the period to do it fairly already closed. Now I need to stay because if I leave it, I’m not going to meet the minimum of credits to keep the scholarship.
The dry noise of someone knocking on my door breaks my concentration, and I frown, slightly annoyed and confused.
Why is someone breaking my door when there’s a fucking doorbell next to it?
I gather the patience that I have left as I stand up. My irritation increases when the person doesn’t stop knocking. On the contrary, with every second that passes, the person bangs harder and faster, almost sounding desperate. The only reasonable explanation is that someone is about to get murder in the hall because there’s no other way.
“I’m coming!” I exclaim loud enough for the person on the other side to hear me, but the banging doesn’t stop.
The Lord is testing me today.
I quicken the pace, stretching my arm to reach the doorknob and turn it, meeting pure nothing. I lower my gaze and spot the one responsible for my newest source of irritation. A groan forms in my throat, but I don’t allow it to emerge.
BreefuckingPierce is standing in front of me. Her wavy hair is tied up in a disastrous ponytail, and her outfit is similar to the one she had at the party. I’d say it’s the same one, but I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. Her appearance doesn’t concern me. No, the fact that disturbs me is that she’s in front of me.
This building has enough security to avoid anyone without a code to come up, so I don’t know how she was allowed to. It’s unlikely that the receptionist let her in because she’s one tough cookie. I’ve been living here for almost three years, and she still doesn’t smile at me.
“How did you get here?” I ask, arching a brow. “You need a code to get into the elevator.”
A code or that the receptionist opens it for you.Which I know didn’t happen.
