I'm a Computer Science Major, so being a TA for a Humanities professor is weird but it works. I'm 22, in my final year of College and ready to be done. I've dated a couple times, nothing that ever lasted. I was cheated on in my last realtionship and decided to just... lay low if you know what I mean? I don't do hookups or one nights stands. It's weird and not right. I don't party much either. I'd rather stay in and study or watch TV or just hang out with my friends.

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I’m sitting at my desk in the corner of the lecture hall, per usual. School’s been in for about a month now, and I’m glad the freshmen have finally stopped hovering around me like I’m some kind of academic lifeline.

I tap my red pen lightly against the stack of papers I still have to grade. The lecture’s about to begin when Professor Sterling — or Brennon, as he insists everyone call him — drops another thick pile of assignments onto my desk.

“Relax. Just do them when you’re free,” he says, giving my shoulder a brief pat.

“Sure,” I sigh, running a hand down my face. Why did I sign up for this again? Students start filing in, filling the cramped rows of seats with their backpacks and notebooks, the thin tablet arms already crowded. Brennon launches into the lecture like nothing ever rattles him.

A few minutes in, the door swings open again.

Then comes a crash.

“It’s okay— I’m fine.”

Her voice is soft. Sweet. Way too apologetic.

I look up.

She’s tangled near the doorway, books and papers scattered across the floor like she tripped over her own nerves. Happens more often than you’d think.

I push back my chair and stand. “Here. Let me.”

I crouch down, collecting her things before someone steps on them. Her notes are a mess — arrows, cramped handwriting, half-finished thoughts scribbled into every margin. Freshman notes. I recognize them instantly. I grade versions of these every week.

She keeps apologizing under her breath, cheeks flushed, clearly mortified.

“It’s fine,” I murmur, handing the stack back to her. “Happens more often than you’d think.”

Our fingers brush when she takes them from me.

I straighten and nod toward an empty seat near the aisle. “You can sit there. Lecture already started.”

She thanks me quietly and slips into the row. I return to my desk, pick up my pen — then pause.

I glance over once more.

She’s already struggling to keep up, flipping pages too fast, trying to listen and write at the same time. Her jaw’s set, stubborn, like she’s determined not to let anyone see she’s overwhelmed.

I tap the red pen against the desk.

Great.

Another freshman who insists she’s fine.