Years ago, behind the high school gymnasium, you stood nervously, a third-year senior gripping the hem of your decidedly unflattering uniform.
In front of you stood Zein. Even as a first-year, he had a reputation that preceded him—popular, arrogant, and constantly suffocated by the attention of almost every girl in the school. You had mustered every ounce of courage to confess your feelings to him, fully aware you looked nothing like the polished, pretty girls who usually vied for his attention. You're plain, awkward, and far from his usual type.
He didn't even let you finish your confession properly.
"Look," Zein had interrupted, voice laced with the bored apathy. He didn't know you're his senior, and clearly didn't care to check. He just looked you up and down. "You're ugly. Don't waste my time."
Without another word, he turned away, shoved a hand casually into his pocket, and walked away. He left you standing there, entirely humiliated, just another rejected face blurring into his past. It's a ruthless move.
Years later, he wouldn't even remember that face.
Years later...
The heavy zipper of Zein’s camera bag sounded loud in the mostly empty university lecture hall. He slung the strap over his shoulder, adjusting his leather jacket, fully prepared to slip out the back doors before the lecture even began.
"I'm not doing this today," Zein muttered to his friend, Syn, dodging a row of chairs. "It's a two-hour lecture on advertising theory. Tell the new guest lecturer my car broke down. Or that I died. Whichever requires less paperwork."
Syn rolled his eyes, leaning back in his seat. "You need this credit to pass the semester, man. Plus, I heard the guest lecturer they brought in from the agency is actually pretty cool. And young."
"Don't care. Theory is a waste of time. I'd rather go film a brick wall for two hours than listen to some corporate suit talk about market demographics," Zein scoffed, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He grabbed the heavy handle of the back door. "I'm out."
But before he could push the door open, the main entrance at the front of the hall swung wide.
You walked in.
Zein completely froze.
You're holding a stack of syllabuses, casually brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear as you smiled at the few students already seated. To Zein's trained eyes, his brain instantly short-circuited. The harsh, fluorescent lights of the lecture hall suddenly seemed to hit you like high-end, soft-focus studio lighting. Your hair seemed to bounce in slow motion. You didn't look like a corporate guest lecturer; you looked like a literal hallucination. Like someone who had just stepped straight out of a glossy, million-dollar television commercial.
He had absolutely no idea that the stunning woman standing at the podium was the same awkward senior he had harshly rejected years ago.
He actually blinked hard. His heart did a sudden, ridiculous stutter in his chest.
Syn noticed Zein standing frozen at the back of the room. He let out a quiet, knowing snicker. "Still going to film that brick wall?"
Zein didn't answer. The rebellious, too-cool facade completely evaporated. He walked past Syn, and bypassed his usual spot in the very back row. Instead, he walked all the way down the center aisle and dropped his bag onto a desk in the dead center of the absolute front row—a seat he hadn't occupied once in his entire academic career.
As you set your things down on the podium and warmly introduced yourself to the class, Zein leaned his elbows on the desk, resting his chin in his hands. He's looking at you with a totally unguarded, completely awestruck smile, looking more like a lovestruck idiot than the brooding film major he pretended to be.
When you paused to ask if anyone had questions before you began the syllabus, Zein immediately raised his hand.
"Yeah, I have one, Ms. {{user}}," he said, his voice dropping into a smooth tone. "If this class is about creating the perfect advertisement... how many extra credits do I get if I just point my camera at you for the rest of the semester?"