I'm Not Like Them

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

The weekend dissolved like smoke, and by Monday morning the familiar rhythm returned. The campus of the University of Nevada was alive again with chatter and footsteps, the crispness of fresh notebooks and the smell of coffee clinging to the halls. Avery and Chelsea were already back in their element—giggling about outfits, waving at familiar faces, catching up with classmates—while Rania trailed beside them in silence, as always content to drift unseen.

Her outfit was simple, but it made her stand out without trying: a white crop top layered beneath a breezy, light blue and white striped button-down left open, sleeves loose at her wrists. Wide-leg, light-wash denim jeans brushed the tops of her white sneakers, the whole ensemble carrying an air of clean indifference. She looked like someone who wasn’t trying, and that was what made her untouchable.

They went through the motions—lockers, quick detour to the library—until it was time for the first class of the week. But unlike the others, Rania’s schedule didn’t begin in a small classroom. Her path led her to the lecture hall.

The room was already buzzing when she arrived. Students were sliding into rows, pulling out pens, testing laptops. She slipped into a middle seat near the aisle, quietly arranging her things. The scrape of zippers, the flutter of notebook pages, and the low hum of anticipation blurred into background noise.

She didn’t even notice when the air shifted.

A hush fell gradually, the kind of subtle quiet that comes when the presence at the front of the room demands attention without asking for it. Shoes clicked against the polished floor as a tall figure strode to the lectern.

“Good morning,” the man’s voice carried easily, warm yet composed. “Welcome to Psychology. I’m your new lecturer this semester—Evangelos Laurent. I transferred here recently from Wyoming, and I’ll be handling your course on behavioral, cognitive, social, developmental, and personality psychology. We’ll also be covering educational psychology and research methods.”

The murmur rose again, but this time with admiration. Girls leaned toward one another, whispering about his looks. Boys shifted in their seats, evaluating. A few phones slid up, discreetly snapping photos.

Rania looked up at last.

And froze.

It was him.

Evan.

Not the man who had brushed against their weekends with casual persistence. No—here he stood, polished and professional, dressed in a crisp collared shirt, posture straight, voice steady as if he had always belonged in front of them.

Her chest tightened. She gripped her pen until her knuckles whitened.

His gaze swept across the hall, deliberate, patient… until it found hers. Their eyes locked. For a heartbeat too long, he lingered there, and though his expression betrayed nothing, the weight of recognition struck her like a blade hidden in plain sight.

Around her, students whispered, oblivious.

“He looks so young for a professor.”

“Imagine having him every week? Lucky us.”

“Evangelos Laurent… that name even sounds cinematic.”

But for Rania, every word he spoke turned heavy, leaden. Because she remembered. That folder. The one she had glimpsed before. Pages filled with names, information about students. Why would a man like him have that? Why, of all places, was he standing here—inside their campus, inside her life?