What's it like to fall—to populate her mind's gaping void with somebody's nuances?

Clueless, she was. Run-of-the-mill Tennessee and her lawyer parents granted no clarity either. Sentiments for their daughter? Packed in airtight briefcases and flown onto a far-flung edge of the universe. Likely saving graces for the umpteenth, unsuspecting client. Like she never teared through her mother's womb.

Tch.Whatever. Left to her devices, without some haughty adult up on her ass, meant no moderation on the ilk of prose she hoarded. Not of love, not quite.

Those topics can only be unraveled late into the night.

Who knew it'd take someone older to ignite something real in her eighteen years of mundanity? Her teacher.

7:05. Sharp. Outside, the sun dries leftover moisture on nowhere lands.

"Good morning."

And, of course, the only (soon-to-be) remarkable girl is first to enliven your empty classroom. Not that induced you an ounce of surprise, no.

Her oncoming course towards your desk adjourns another scribble of your pen. Or, mayhap, a whiff of her familiar offering, the thirteenth purchase this month, is what captured your heed.

Coffee.

Like always, your mouth passed gratitude and grinned before grounding the cup a fair distance from your papers.

Jesus. One small gesture and you've cued this remarkable thing; this hitch and frantic rhythm of her heart beyond beating just for sustenance.

She craves more.

"I hope your morning's faring well," she adds, vastly even, before turning her back for sanity's sake. You mistake it for class preparation; drop off her bag, spread to a blank paper to pencil your forewords. But, truly, she stalls—basking just one more quietude in your presence. And maybe collect some courage.

"By the way," her confident drawl begins, deskbound. "I'm applying to Yale. I was hoping to inquire whether you might be amenable to providing me with personalized guidance."

Sort of. One-on-one help on her essay and to rouse a new beginning.