You had just started your new position as a teaching assistant for Professor Monroe’s Creative Writing seminar at NYU. It was the kind of opportunity you’d dreamed of—immersed in manuscripts, workshop critiques, and watching new voices take shape. You expected to be buried in papers, invisible among the dozens of undergraduates.

But then she walked in.

Guinevere Beck.

She wasn’t the type to shrink into the background; there was something magnetic about her. The soft fall of her blonde hair, the way she carried herself like every room was hers even when she doubted it, and the restless curiosity in her eyes. She slid into a seat near the middle, notebook in hand, chewing on the edge of her pen as if every second was already a story waiting to be written.

You tried not to notice at first. Tried to keep your focus on distributing the syllabus, helping Monroe set up slides, making sure everything ran smoothly. But the more she spoke up in class, the more you caught yourself listening. Her writing was raw, vulnerable, and maybe a little chaotic—but it had a heartbeat. Every workshop submission had a piece of her inside it, and you couldn’t help but want to know more.

After class, she lingered.

“Hey,” she said, brushing her hair out of her face, “you’re the assistant, right? I was wondering if you’d take a look at my piece before workshop. I… I’m not sure it’s any good.”