The moment we haul our sorry asses back into the classroom after the hellscape of the canteen, the air feels like a stale lungful of boredom. The universe clearly enjoys kicking us while we're down. Our usual row, our usual hell hole-four seats in a goddamn prison line.  

  

At the front stands Dr. Christian Vaughn-and yes, her name alone sounds like she's the kind of person who'd sell you grammar lessons dipped in poison. She's that one professor who manages to suck the soul out of the very air you breathe. Hair so tight in a bun it might snap like a noose, eyes dead like she's been slowly sucked dry by a thousand unread papers, and that voice? Like a slow drip of tar on a cold winter's day.  

  

"Today, class," she drones, the words falling like a hammer on a nail. "We will dissect the subjunctive mood. Does anyone care about the subjunctive mood?"  

  

No one raises a hand. No one gives a flying fuck.  

  

I bite the inside of my cheek. Subjunctive mood? Seriously? What the actual hell? I'm tempted to stand up, scream, and set this entire campus ablaze while I'm at it. Actually, yeah - that sounds like a fucking plan.  

  

Imagine it. Flames licking the ceiling, the smoke curling like a middle finger to this entire institution. Dr. Vaughn choking on the ashes of her own goddamn lesson plans.  

  

I take a sip of my water, trying to drown out my murderous thoughts.  

  

Then, out of the corner of my eye, Shaiza leans over with that sly grin only she can pull off.  

  

"My boyfriend came to my place last night," she whispers, all innocent like she's sharing a secret about the weather.  

  

I arch a brow and smirk. "Oh? Did you eat dinner by candlelight? Romantic playlist, maybe?"  

  

She gives me a deadpan look and says, "Nope. We ate each other."  

  

I fucking spit out my water, which sprays across my desk like a goddamn fountain. I cough so violently I think I'm about to die right there, my chest heaving like I just ran a marathon.  

  

The whole class goes dead silent. You can practically hear a pin drop, and for a split second, all eyes slam onto me like I just confessed to an international crime.  

  

Dr. Vaughn stares at me like I'm a violent disaster waiting to happen. "Are you okay?" she asks, voice sharp but tinged with something like confused concern.  

  

Oh, honey. If only you knew the volcano that just exploded inside me.  

  

I manage to choke out, "Yeah, just... water in the wrong pipe."  

  

She rolls her eyes, probably thinking I'm just another dumbass with zero attention span. Like always, she mutters under her breath, "Every time she's in class, either her mind's somewhere else or she's doing something completely dumb."  

  

I want to smile sweetly and say, Bitch, if I had your soul, I'd be dumb too. Instead, I settle for stabbing her in my head with daggers sharp enough to cut through the fucking chalkboard.  

  

I glance at Shaiza, who's biting her lip trying not to laugh like a lunatic, and whisper harshly, "What the hell did you just say?"  

  

Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Relax, I was just fucking with you."  

  

I smack her lightly on the arm, but the grin won't leave my face. Goddamn, she's dangerous.  

  

Dr. Vaughn clears her throat, trying to regain control like the tyrant of tedium she is.  

  

"If you both can manage to focus, maybe you'll understand why this shit matters. English isn't just a language - it's a weapon. Use it well."  

  

I stare at her like she just handed me a rusty knife and told me to go hunt a lion.  

  

Yeah, English is a weapon - one I'm aiming to turn against every single miserable second I spend in this hellhole.  

  

Shaiza nudges me again, whispering, "You wanna go burn it all down after class?"  

  

I smile darkly. "Hell yes."  

  

The rest of the class drones on, a slurry of passive boredom, forced note-taking, and the subtle planning of future rebellion. Somewhere inside me, the fire is lit. Not the kind Dr. Vaughn wants, but the one that makes me want to break all the rules and set this damn campus on fire.  

  

I'm barely recovering from the violent water choke when I lean in closer to Shaiza, eyes narrowed, voice low.  

  

"Bitch, I know you're not fucking with me. You dead serious? What the hell happened last night?"  

  

Shaiza doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink. She leans closer, her breath tickling the edge of my ear like a damn secret from the devil himself, and whispers:  

  

"It was wild. And rough as fuck."  

  

My spine snaps straight like a soldier about to enter a war zone. What the actual fucking-  

  

I whisper back, louder than I should:  

"You are out of your damn mind."  

  

She just grins. That evil, unapologetic little gremlin smirk. The one that says Yeah, I did it. What the fuck are you gonna do about it?  

  

Then she shrugs and whispers, voice casual like she's discussing lunch options,  

"Why not? It's not like I'm fucking holding onto a V-card like you, bitch. I know the pleasure, so I'll do it anytime, anywhere, with anyone."  

  

I slam my palm down on the desk with a soft thud, jaw nearly hitting the floor.  

  

"With anyone??" I hiss. "Bitch, you got a whole-ass boyfriend!"  

  

She holds up a hand like wait for it, then says smoothly,  

"Yeah, I know. I just... twisted my tongue. I meant with him. Obviously. Goddamn, you're so fucking jumpy today."  

  

I stare at her like she just admitted to fucking a ghost. Twisted your tongue? Girl, that's not how language works!  

  

Before I can clap back, Dr. Vaughn's sharp voice cuts through the room like the edge of a guillotine.  

  

"Miss Mirza," she calls, voice steeped in venomous sarcasm, "unless you're whispering the secrets to literary immortality over there, I'd recommend paying attention. Or is this another one of your avant-garde learning methods?"  

  

She says it with that smug professor tone, all condescending and shit. The kind that makes me want to throw a chair across the room.  

  

The class erupts into polite laughter.  

  

You know that fake, robotic, "ha ha I hate my life but I want grades" kind of laughter? That.  

  

Except for me and Shaiza.  

  

We stare at each other, eyes wide, synchronized confusion washing over us like:  

What the actual fuck was that?  

  

Was that... was that supposed to be funny?  

  

Shaiza mouths, "Did she just try to make a joke?"  

  

I mouth back, "She really fucking did."  

  

Ruby, seated at my left like a smug little gremlin, casually jabs her elbow into my side. "Laugh, bitch. If you want attendance."  

  

My brain stalls. My face contorts. I look at her like she just asked me to bark.  

  

But then, Shaiza snorts beside me-barely holding it in-and I fucking lose it.  

  

We both start laughing. Not the polite kind. Oh no. This is lunatic, wheezing, unhinged laughing. The kind that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes water and makes the rest of the room go dead silent again because they think we've officially lost our fucking minds.  

  

Dr. Vaughn just... stares.  

  

Like a tired old priest realizing the demons he was hired to exorcise actually live in us.  

  

"Glad my joke entertained you so much," she deadpans.  

  

I try to suppress it, hand slapped over my mouth, but Shaiza leans over and whispers:  

  

"You know what else is wild?"  

  

I choke again.  

  

"Bitch-shut the fuck up-"  

  

She leans closer like the devil on my shoulder. "I still have his nail marks on my thighs."  

  

I slam my forehead onto the desk.  

  

Just kill me. Fucking bury me here. This is my grave now.  

  

I'm shaking, gasping for breath, trying so hard not to scream-laugh while Dr. Vaughn starts blabbering about something called "modal auxiliaries" which honestly just sounds like a dumbass spell from a failed Harry Potter knockoff.  

  

She walks across the front of the room like she's summoning a demon with each step, waving her dry-ass marker like it's a goddamn sword.  

  

Meanwhile, I'm over here wondering how Shaiza still looks so casual after dropping that level of chaos.  

  

This bitch really said nail marks like she's talking about a fucking manicure.  

  

I whisper, barely breathing,  

"You're a goddamn menace."  

  

She grins. "You love me."  

  

"I want to fucking strangle you."  

  

"You can try."  

  

We both laugh again-lower this time-but it still earns us a warning glare from Professor Doom up front.  

  

But who gives a shit?  

  

Grammar can go fuck itself. This class is already lit on fire.  

  

I try to breathe normal. Just fucking normal. But no. My chest's still shaking from Shaiza's demonic whispers about thigh scratches and the ghost of her dignity.  

  

Dr. Vaughn keeps talking. Her voice is just-god, I swear her tone is the auditory version of expired bread. Dry, lifeless, stale. Makes me want to hurl a thesaurus at her face and ask her to find a new personality.  

  

"Modals can be used to express probability, obligation, necessity..."  

  

Probability of me jumping off the second floor right now: 95%.  

  

My eyes, the betraying little bitches, start drooping.  

  

I blink. Force them open. Blink again.  

  

Not today, Satan.  

  

Nope. I am not about to sleep in front of the professor who literally thinks sarcasm is humor and drinks decaf on purpose.

So I do the only logical thing: I pull out my notebook and start to doodle.

Except-I can't fucking draw.

My "cat" looks like a diseased squirrel.

The "flower" has six different species in one.

And I'm pretty sure my "heart" turned into a limp penis halfway through.

Still, I keep going.

Because it's either this or passing the fuck out and drooling on the desk.

And that's when my brain-the last traitorous organ in my body-decides to throw me into a memory.

The novel I read last night.

Oh fuck no.

It was supposed to be a harmless little romance. Except it wasn't. It was pure, sweaty, ass-clapping smut. And I read it till 3 AM with wide eyes and sinful thoughts. There was a scene. Oh. There was a scene.

And now, that exact scene is playing in my head in Ultra 4K 60fps HDR Blu-ray quality.

The male lead pushing her against the wall, his voice low, his hand up her thigh, the shirt half-unbuttoned, his mouth doing ungodly things-

I smirk.

I fucking smirk.

In the middle of the classroom.

Head tilted, lip curled, looking like I just planned a murder or committed one.

Shaiza notices.

She gives me a weird look like "what the fuck are you planning now, bitch?" and I don't answer because I'm not here anymore. Mentally, I'm in that smut scene.

I lower my head to the desk, arms folded like I'm just "resting."

But no.

Inside my mind, I AM the female lead.

He's gripping my waist.

He's whispering things that are illegal in at least seventeen countries.

He's got a voice like honey-dipped sin and a jawline sharp enough to stab someone with.

My brain:

"This is fine. Totally okay. Absolutely normal."

Me, face in desk wood grain:

"Bitch... fuck. What the fuck. You need holy water. You need a priest. You need to get baptized again. In bleach."

My legs shift. My fingers grip the side of the desk. My dignity leaves my body.

And then-

I don't even know when it happens.

One second, I'm pressing my cheek to the desk, smirking like some horny villain from a Wattpad disaster, and the next-

Darkness.

Eyes? Closed.

Head? Fully dropped.

Mouth? Parted just enough to leak a bit of shame and probably drool.

Body? Absolutely betraying me.

There's no conscious decision. No "I'm going to nap now" moment. Just... blank.

Like my brain said "Goodbye, whore," and dipped.

The wood of the desk is cold, but my skin's warm-too warm, probably because that damn scene is still playing in my head like a porn film curated by the devil himself.

The fake male lead whispers something filthy. I exhale. My lips twitch.

God, not the lip twitch.

Somewhere far, far away, I think someone's speaking. A voice. Familiar. Repetitive. Dr. Vaughn? Maybe.

But it sounds like it's underwater. Like someone's giving a grammar lecture inside a toilet bowl.

I shift a little.

The desk groans under my forehead. My fingers curl inwards. A tiny sound escapes me-too soft to be a snore but too embarrassing to be anything else. If anyone hears it, I'm jumping out the fucking window. I swear.

And still-

I stay there.

Still.

Unguarded. Stuck in this smut-stained void, floating through moans and gasps and cursed fantasies my Catholic ancestors would scream at me for.

There's no dignity left in this body. Just warm drool and dehydrated lust.

Holy water's not enough anymore.

I need to be thrown into the fucking ocean.