▍𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗂𝖺 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗒
𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 ! e. y
008. 爱 ᠈ 𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗆 .
MENTIONS OF SA !!
YOUR FEET TAPPED HASTILY UNDER THE TABLE and your teeth dug into your bottom lip. Sparing the table beside you a glance, you resisted the urge to scream. From pain?—No, from impatience.
Surrounding the three circular tables standing in the center of the room (one of which you were seated) were multiple desks, huddled with computers and chunky binders. A large projector covered half of the whiteboard where papers were pinned messily, although the writings on the board were pretty neat.
Large windows made the room bright, but not warm. Instead, the cool air spewing into the room had your hairs standing up straight. Certificates and dusty newspapers (for aesthetic perhaps) were plastered all over the freshly painted walls. The sweet smell of coffee and doughnuts stuffed your nose.
But, you couldn't pay attention to all that.
The editor of the Eye magazine, a section of The Columbia Daily Spectator, stood only a few feet away from you, conversating (almost endlessly it seemed) with one of the three circular tables in the spacious room. The room was filled with curious minds, ready to take on another story and share it with the world—another passion of yours.
Now that your Tuesday afternoons were to be ruined by Eren Yaegar (the destroyer of anything good in the world) you only had one thing to look forward to on the morning of that dreadful day—journalism.
Of course, writing was at times an extreme pain, and sometimes doing research for countless nights made you wonder if bleach was really as poisonous as the labels say, but you were apparently a masochist. You enjoyed the thrill of it all. Digging deep into the web and tearing apart sketchy agendas.
Today, the thrill was eating at you, because you had the story. The scandalous kind. The kind any Columbia kid with a care of human rights would devour. The kind that encourage people to act out.
But your editor, Emma, wouldn't hand out topics fast enough.
"Damn, [y/n]. Are you nervous or excited?" The girl seated beside you joked, probably noticing the way your leg bounced uncontrollably.
"It's the drugs." You kept your eyes a little wide.
You saw confusion. A few snickered. The girl whispered a concerned "what?"
You blinked and allowed your eyes to return to normal. "I'm joking. I'm excited."
"Oh, sorry, duh," she laughed awkwardly.
"Dumbass," someone muttered.
"What's up? You got a big story a somethin'?" A guy asked. He was nervous, you could tell. He was tapping his fingers against a yellow folder and you had caught his eyes bouncing around before the meeting began.
"I don't know if it's big, but y'all are gonna be jealous, for sure."
"Oh, really?" a woman quarried. "What's it about? I'm curious, now."
"Is it about the rise of alcohol discipline in Columbia? 'Cause I want that story. I want it so bad," another writer at the table rambled with determination in her eyes.
You were about to answer, but your editor had finally come over to your table with that familiar look of seriousness on her face: lips pierced into a thin line, eyebrows furrowed, long shiny hair pulled back with a small clip (as always).
"Alright, last group." Emma began, a pen and clipboard in her hands. Her glasses stuck closely to her face. "Do you guys have an idea about which story you want?"
"Yea, I do," you stated quickly and with volume.
"Shoot."
"So, I was looking into the past EOAA investigation a couple months ago. The one about that professor in the medical department—"
"You mean George?" A girl questioned, her face skeptical. You nodded.
"We know the one. Disgusting man." Emma's lip curled at the mention. "It's a topic... but there's not much to write that people don't know already."
A girl at the table looked at the bunch of you with widened eyes. "Wait, George? Who's that? Should I know who that is?"
She must be new here.
"Not really. He was a professor in a lab and got caught up for sexually harassing students a decade ago," you answered.
"Woah," she sighed out. "I didn't know stuff like that happened here."
"You seriously haven't heard?" another questioned.
"Many people haven't," Emma spoke up then looked at you, "but, all the information can be found on Google. I don't think there's much more to add to the situation."
"Maybe." Aware of all the eyes at the table on you, you tried your best not to look too eager as you opened your folder and pulled out a stapled stack of papers. "But, not many articles mention how one of the first woman to report the guy was actually fired and lost access to her research. You see?" You trailed a finger under a few lines on the paper to cite yourself. Emma hummed with interest.
"The woman said she couldn't advise others to speak out against this stuff in good conscience 'cause they might face retaliation, just like her. So, I thought about how this reflects Colombia today." You flipped the page to show more research. "In the past 6 weeks, I spoke to dozens of women who are in some way aware of sexual misconduct in Columbia labs. I want to do a story on the silence around it."
"Sounds good. I'm impressed and grateful that you did your research beforehand. This looks like a heavy investigation." She scribbled onto her clipboard before looking straight at the group. "Alright, next?"
As the next eager writer spoke up, you closed up your folder and pretended to pay attention. It had been a while since you felt this determined about a story. The topic had even inspired a poem or two.
Deep into your own thoughts, you soon realized Emma was now speaking by the projector with a doughnut in her hands.
"—so, we're outta time," she said. "Throw your coffee away on your way out and make sure to have your papers on my desk by Wednesday. Or sent by email."
You grabbed your coffee and folder and left the table feeling accomplished and proud. On the way out, you dropped your half-empty cup as told and left the room to be met by the large halls.
You had one goal in mind: making it outside so you could wait for Deena to leave her lecture, which was ending in about five minutes—perfect, considering you hated waiting.
You had made it down a series of stairs when you slowed to a stop at the faint sound of your name. You looked around, searching for someone's eyes on yours.
"Hey!" a bubbly, but unfamiliar, voice came from behind you making your heart jump a bit.
Man, you hated when people did that shit.
You turned around to face what annoyance had approached you now. Quickly, your eyes trailed up from the girl's preppy collar shirt, down to her shiny Steve Madden shoes, then back up again to her brown eyes. The girl was shorter than you with a small figure and that fluffy blonde hair you imagined many people struggled to pull off.
"Sorry, did I scare you?" she asked with the same level of excitement as before.
"Nah, you didn't."
Her upturned eyes were crinkling from her smile. She had gorgeous straight teeth, and freckles danced across her nose. This girl was pretty. Not the normal kind of pretty you usually see. It's the interesting kind where you don't see those particular features paired up often.
Her hands clasped behind her and she tilted her head, an eyebrow raised. "You're [y/n], right?"
"Yea? And you are?"
"Isis," she responded with a nod and another smile. She smiles a lot, you noted.
"Okay, Isis. I'm actually leaving, so—"
"Oh, sorry," she chuckled, just as you began turning around, and stalked up to your side. "I'm leaving, too. Wanna walk together?"
"Yea sure," you smiled. The two of you continued your walk to the front door, which was a few turns away. You noticed she had a bounce to her walk, which seemed to match her current mood.
"So," she began beside you. "Where are you coming from?"
"Spectator room."
Isis' eyebrows raised and she nodded with impression. "So, you're a spectator and a poet?"
Your eyes darted over to her, now squinted. "It's not an uncommon combination... You in the poetry club? I've never seen you there."
"I'm not." Her smile fell and she kept her eyes forward, ignoring your gaze, a noticeable change considering she had been smiling at you for the past five minutes. She was walking a bit slower now, too, which you didn't appreciate as you were eager to get home. "You and Eren? What's up with you two?"
Ah.
This was about Eren.
It took all that was within you not to roll your eyes as your fingernails dug into the folder in your hand. Now, Eren's constant pestering had his whatever-the-hells coming up to you, asking about what was up when—"Nothings up."
The girl replied with, "Hm."
Hm.
So much for smiling a lot. This girl had an agenda.
"I don't believe that," she added.
"That's not my problem."
It was now that you noticed the upturn of her nose—the snobby kind. And you noticed the hands in her pocket form into a fist. And you noticed her jaw was clenched and her eyebrows had lowered. But, as you said only a second ago, it wasn't your problem.
"It is your problem," she rebutted with cracks in her voice. You raised a single brow. "He likes you. You have all of his attention and you're just playing with it."
"I'm not playing with it. Ion even want it."
She snorted. "I heard. But, I know you like the attention, whether you wanna admit it or not. Eren's not one to chase after girls, so he must be doing it 'cause you're—you're leading him on. Tell the truth. I care about him, and—"
"Ireen, please get the fuck outta my face. You're blowing my good mood."
"Ireen?" she gritted through her teeth, but you didn't even spare her a glance.
A few seconds passed and she didn't say anything more.
Maybe if I close my eyes really tight, she'll disappear.
But you didn't have to. She finally added, "Fine," her tone seeping of venom, and spun around, making the ground beneath her squeak. You felt relieved to hear the heel of her shoes clicking away.
"Oh!" You heard her call out. You didn't care to turn around, though. "Just so you know, everyone around here thinks you're a bitch!"
And the clicking continued.
You noticed a few students giving you looks as you continued walking, clearly overhearing Iris' loud claim, but you didn't care. It was nothing new. You weren't foreign to rude looks. Who cared if you were a bitch? The bitchier you were to people, the less they fucked with you.
That's just the way most people are. If you're nice, they'll walk all over you.
You looked at one of the round clocks many feet away.
10:16
It wasn't even noon yet.
Eren was only supposed to be a bother on Tuesday afternoons, and yet he managed to bother your morning as well.
—— i said previously that
the club meets on
tuesdays and thursdays,
but i'm changing it
to only tuesdays.
sorry abt the annoyance.