Just Another Love Story

Just Another Love Story: I got hauled by a ghost in the House of Doom

Here’s my definition of torture: Waste your precious lunch working for the person who persistently humiliates you in front of your whole trigonometry class.

Last night at bed, while staring at the empty ceiling looming in darkness above me, I had this superb initiative that might just free me from the cocky trigonometry teacher.

Even earlier this morning, I’d been light-moodily strutting around the school grounds with the transfer request paper tucked carefully in a folder inside my bag. I’ve filled it up enthusiastically. But one fact, overly depressing, spooled in my head; I need his approval… and I think that would be a little hard to get.

“Uhm, sir?” I said, taking my prized time to walk the distance to his table.

He looked up from his paper. “Hm?”

      “I—uhm—I’m all done checking the papers.”

He looked behind me, to where I checked the papers he asked me to the moment I got here. “There are still eight minutes left. If you want to stay here, you may, if you want to go then you may. Do whatever you wish.”

With not much indifference and care, he returned back to his computer as the words came out from his uninterrupted lips.

To now, I was still wondering why I had been forcing myself to keep my cool in front of this philosophical devilish-scheme imp. But yet again, I am.

Which is why what I was going on for is what I secretly think for the best: first to keep all the anger I had vented in myself away and second, to bring to a close this unremitting hidden hostility between this guy and me.

       “As a matter of fact, I need something from you.” I hesitated but then continued. “Sir,”

His head bolted up, instantly meeting my retiring gaze. An appealing leer stroke through his lips as he leant back, fingertips together, a gesture I’m already familiar with.

       “What is it?” He conjured.

I fumbled my hands inside my very own backpack, which came as an entertaining sight for him. Once I got hold of the document, I eagerly passed it to his holding.

      “It’s a transfer request and it needs your approval so… please sign it.” I pensively said, measuring his expression, which is a little close to none.

Knowing how much of a fun he wanted to make out of me, he wouldn’t probably agreed to this. And my simple assumption due to the previous episodes of us being together had come to be proved by his one simple response:

      “No.”

My whole body fell into limbo and I began to feel my eyelids grow heavy with impending tears. It was not the response I wanted but it was nevertheless, what I had expected. I just never thought it would be almost ripping to actually hear it.

      “Why won’t you?” I managed to spill.

His expression stayed hard, and his shoulders went rigid. “Tell me why you want to transfer from my class.”

I let out a far from humorous chuckle. “I don’t see any reason why I should.”

He duplicated my antic. “As far as I know, you need my approval. So it’s far upon plausible to hear what I am to approve or disapprove.”

I thought hard and it was almost aching to grasp that he had just presented a fact. I nibbled on my lower lip, trying to bite back the flow of words, of insults, or of invectives that may come out; the series of protests and complains, the stream of hostility that might just come running from my hand to his cheek, or the gush of hatred and enmity that might emerge as a loud, screeching scream.