I loved them. Obsessed, even. The ones who walked the tightrope between damnation and redemption. The ones who made you want to stab them and then kiss them right after. My weakness? Villains with a reason.

But life, in its infinite talent for screwing me sideways, didn't throw me into the arms of some brooding antihero with tattoos and an enemies-to-lovers plot. No. It handed me a 16th-century dead man with a quill and a superiority complex.

William bloody Shakespeare.

Not even in a haunted, gothic, sexy way. No tortured ghost in the corner whispering poetry into my ear. No. Just a dusty, over-glorified corpse whose plays now serve as my personal hell.

As I sit in the suffocating cage that is Shakespearean Literature class, my soul is actively rotting. The AC hums too loud, the fluorescent lights flicker like they're mocking me, and Miss Clara D'Silva-a woman with the energy of a dead fish and the voice of an even deader fish-is babbling about iambic pentameter like it's the damn formula for immortality.

I stare at the whiteboard. Blank. Not the board-me. I'm blank. Wiped. Zonked. My brain has left the chat. If someone opened my skull right now, they'd find a single potato chip rattling around in there.

Clara Miss's voice drones like she's been paid to kill us all with boredom. "Now if you pay attention to the rhythm of the soliloquy, you'll see how Shakespeare manipulates the meter to reflect inner turmoil..."

Inner turmoil?

Ma'am. I am inner turmoil.

And the worst part? I can't even sleep through this. My eyelids are begging me for mercy, but sleep in Clara's class is a contact sport. You close your eyes and-bam-she's there like a banshee with a degree.

Next to me, Shaiza snorts softly. My partner-in-chaos, my ride-or-die, the only bitch who can match my energy at 8:00 a.m. when I'm contemplating academic homicide.

"Psst," she whispers, elbowing me. "You're blinking in slow motion. People might think you're having a stroke."

"Or," I mutter without moving my lips, "transcending to a plane where Shakespeare never fucking existed."

She covers her laugh with a fake cough. I grin. And for a moment, my suffering feels less... eternal.

But of course, the universe hears me having a sliver of peace and decides to spit in my cereal.

"Arshilaaah."

That voice. So sharp, so sudden, it slices through my skull like a knife through butter. I shoot up straight like I've been tasered.

Clara Miss is staring at me like she wants to dissect my corpse and feed it to Shakespeare's ghost.

The entire class is dead silent.

Why are classrooms always so fucking quiet when you're being publicly executed?

"Since you're clearly having a very important discussion during my class," she says, narrowing her eyes like a budget Dolores Umbridge, "why don't you enlighten us on the significance of Richard the Third's opening monologue?"

I blink. My brain? Still buffering.

Richard the fucking what?

I have no idea what she's talking about. All I remember from today's lesson is that Clara Miss is wearing the exact same dress she wore last Wednesday, and that her hair bun is holding on for dear life. That's it. That's all I retained.

"Uhhh..." I make a vague choking noise, like a frog trying to do public speaking. "Something about... winter? And discontent?"

A snicker escapes from someone in the back. My fingers twitch with the urge to stab them with my pen.

I glance sideways at Shaiza like Help me before I commit academic suicide. She just smiles. That wicked little demon.

No hint of mercy in her. None. She's watching me burn like I'm her personal entertainment subscription.

Clara Miss sighs like I've personally offended her ancestors. "Stand up, Arshila. Maybe vertical suffering will help you absorb knowledge."

With the enthusiasm of a snail going to war, I push back my chair and stand. The legs scrape the floor like a horror movie jump scare. Everyone's watching. Even the AC pauses in judgment.

Shaiza giggles under her breath.

Oh hell no.

"You think this is funny?" I hiss at her, low enough that only she hears.

She nods like the little shit she is. Her smile is angelic. I want to punch her.

So I do the next best thing.

I step on her foot.

Hard.

"OW-!" she yelps, flinching violently. Her eyes go wide. If she had laser vision, I'd be a pile of ashes right now.

Clara Miss's gaze snaps to her. "Shaiza! What in God's name-?"

"She-!" Shaiza begins, pointing at me like a snitch in training.

I smile. Full innocence. Eyes wide. Lips parted like I'm shocked and wounded. Disney princess level acting.

Clara Miss is done. She's absolutely done.

"Both of you. OUT. Now!"

I don't even fake protest. I grab my bag like I've been freed from prison and saunter toward the door. Shaiza limps behind me, glaring daggers.

We step out, the door slamming behind us with a dramatic thud.

The second we're alone in the hallway, she punches me in the arm. Hard.

"You bitch," she growls.

I laugh. "You were asking for it."

"I hope Shakespeare rises from the dead and haunts you."

"Good. Then I'll tell him to take you first."

We're both grinning now. Enemies to lovers? Nah. We're besties to prison inmates.

"So?" I say, stretching my arms like a warrior finally out of battle. "Canteen?"

Shaiza rolls her eyes. "Where else?"

We walk off, ignoring the shrieks of some junior in the next class, the faint sound of someone reciting Macbeth in terror, and the general vibe of academic trauma echoing through the hallway.

God, I hate Shakespeare.

But I love skipping class.

And with Shaiza by my side, I'm not just skipping it. I'm drop-kicking it into the sun.

I stretch my arms like I've been released from solitary confinement. "God, if I hear the word 'soliloquy' one more time, I might shove Shakespeare's quill up my own ass."

Shaiza limps beside me, dramatically dragging her foot like she's just walked out of a war zone. "You didn't just step on me. You fucking stabbed my soul through my foot."

I shrug, unapologetic. "Collateral damage. Should've helped me instead of grinning like a bitchy hyena."

"You're deranged."

"And you're still limping. So who's the bigger loser?"

We both snort, half-laughing as we push open the double glass doors and enter the canteen-our holy sanctuary, our battlefield, our therapy chamber. And maybe the only place in this entire cursed university that doesn't smell like old furniture and pretentiousness.

The hum of students, the clatter of trays, the smell of overpriced greasy food that definitely violates multiple health codes-it hits me like a warm punch of comfort.

We slide into our usual spot: the back-left corner, next to the vending machine that never works but somehow still stands like a monument to false hope.

"Coffee or death?" I ask.

"Same thing today. Go get two, I'll watch our spot." Shaiza leans back with a wince, rubbing her foot like I chopped it off. Drama queen.

I walk to the counter and order two iced lattes because we're classy bitches with trauma and no sleep. The guy behind the counter looks half-dead. Honestly, same. I grab the drinks, muttering a soft "bless your tired soul, bro" before returning.

When I flop down into my seat, Shaiza already has her phone out, probably texting her suspiciously boring situationship who sends her Pinterest quotes at midnight like it's romance.

"Tell that guy to grow a personality, or I will," I say, handing her the drink.

"He said I remind him of a storm today."

I nearly choke on my first sip. "A storm? Is he aware you cried over a bee last week?"

"It was fucking huge and it came at me like it had a vendetta!"

We both burst out laughing. Real, wheezing, head-thrown-back laughter. That kind of laugh that makes people think you're either on drugs or recently escaped a mental facility. Either way, we've earned it.

I glance around. The bell hasn't rung yet. Ten more minutes of peace before the universe remembers we're its favorite punching bags.

"Okay but hear me out," I say, resting my cheek on my palm. "What if Shakespeare wasn't some literary genius, but just a dude who hated people and wrote cryptic shit to confuse future generations for fun?"

"Honestly, I respect that. That's exactly what I'd do if I had a quill and no will to live."

I snort. "You do have no will to live."

"Exactly. Soul twins."

We clink our plastic cups like royalty toasting at a funeral. It's all fun and games until-

DING. 

The bell shrieks like Satan's microwave.

Right on cue, the hallway floods with zombies-aka students. The door bursts open, and in waltz Ifrah and Ruby, both looking like they just got smacked in the face by reality.

Ifrah's eyes narrow the second she spots us, lips twisted like she's been holding it in the whole time.

"Can you guys shut the fuck up in class next time? Seriously." Her voice cuts through the air like a knife dipped in passive aggression.

Ruby flops into the chair next to me without invitation, already pulling her hoodie strings tight around her face like she's trying to disappear.

"My ears are still ringing from Miss Clara's rage. You assholes lit the match and walked out while we were inside burning alive."

I blink at them both, deadpan. "You didn't even look at us when we were getting kicked out. Not a glance. Not a blink. Nothing."

"Yeah," Shaiza adds with full-on betrayal in her tone. "I limped out like I was dying, and you two acted like we were invisible. Fake bitches."

Ifrah tosses her hands up. "We didn't want to get roasted! That woman's eye contact is a curse. One stare and your ancestors start weeping."

"Not my problem," I shoot back. "If I go down, I'm dragging all you bastards with me. No survivors."

Ruby pulls her hood tighter. "This is why we can't have nice things. Or good attendance."

"Bitch, what attendance? You skip more lectures than you attend," I scoff.

"Okay but when I do attend, I wanna hear Shakespeare, not your tragic love-hate relationship with the guy."

I roll my eyes so hard I see my past lives. "Tragic? I wanna kill him. Drag his ghost down from literary heaven and beat him with his own damn scrolls."

Shaiza takes a loud slurp from her drink. "You'd end up seducing his ghost. Let's be honest."

"He's old, dead, and fictional. That's still three times better than any real guy on campus."

Ruby wheezes. "You need therapy."

"And you need a GPA."

We all cackle at that one, laughing until our stomachs hurt and the rest of the canteen starts side-eyeing us like we're chaos incarnate-which, honestly, we are.

And in that moment, with coffee in our hands, insults flying like arrows, and the four of us gathered like the dysfunctional coven of cursed bitches we are, I think:

Maybe university is hell, but at least we're in it together