Moments later, Rhea stood outside the principal's office.
Her hands were still cold when she pressed the file tighter against her chest. The paper inside was already crumpled at the edges—not from carelessness, but from how hard she'd been gripping it while walking here.
She could've gone to Ling's office.
She didn't.
She wouldn't.
Her jaw tightened as she knocked.
"Come in," the principal said from inside.
Rhea entered without hesitation, posture straight, face blank. No trace of what had happened in the café. No trace of the way her heart still felt bruised.
"Yes?" the principal asked, looking up from his desk.
"I'm submitting my medical absence application," Rhea said evenly, stepping forward and placing the file on his desk. "For the party night. And before that."
The principal glanced at the file, then at her face. "You were absent without prior notice," he said casually. "Strict rules now. New administration influence."
"I'm aware," Rhea replied. Her voice didn't waver. "That's why I'm submitting it formally."
He nodded, opening the file. He skimmed through the pages without much interest—dates, signatures, a brief medical explanation.
"Hmm," he hummed. "Looks fine."
Rhea waited. Silent. Still.
He stamped the paper.
"Accepted," he said, pushing the file aside. "You're dismissed."
Just like that.
No questions.
No suspicion.
No idea who she was avoiding.
Rhea nodded once. "Thank you."
She turned and left immediately.
The door closed softly behind her.
In the corridor, she stopped walking for a second.
Not because she was tired.
Because the weight in her chest suddenly shifted—heavier, sharper.
She'd done it.
She'd found a way around Ling.
That should've felt like victory.
It didn't.
Her fingers curled slowly, nails biting into her palm.
I hate her, she told herself firmly as she started walking again.
I don't need her.
She repeated it like a rule.
Like medicine.
Down the corridor, Rhea walked toward the stairs, application done, shoulders stiff.
Her chest hurt for reasons she refused to name.
Ling stayed in her office.
Just sitting—still, rigid, controlled to the point of cruelty.
The file tray on her desk was empty.
Too empty.
Her eyes flicked to the door for the third time in ten minutes. No knock. No footsteps stopping outside. No voice—sharp, defiant, unmistakably Rhea's.
Ling leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled under her chin.
She'll come, she told herself coldly.
She has to.
Rules were rules. Absence without application meant consequences. And Rhea hated consequences. Hated authority. Hated being told what to do.
Ling's mouth twitched bitterly.
She'll come just to argue. Just to glare. Just to tell me I'm unbearable.
That was fine.
Ling wanted that.
She wanted Rhea standing in front of her—eyes blazing, mouth sharp, heart exposed even if she pretended otherwise. She wanted to hear her voice again, even if it spat venom.
Even if it said I hate you.
Ling told herself she only wanted to see her to finish it.
To hurt her back.
To remind her who walked away first.
Her fingers curled slowly against the armrest.
You flew away in your jet, Rhea's words echoed in her head.
You left.
Ling's jaw tightened.
"I didn't leave," she muttered to the empty room. "You pushed me."
Silence answered.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
A faculty member knocked lightly, poked their head in. "Ma'am, do you need—"
"No," Ling said instantly, eyes never leaving the door. "Leave."
The door closed again.
Ling exhaled sharply through her nose.
Her chest felt tight. Annoying. Unnecessary.
Why is she taking so long?
She checked the time. Still nothing.
Ling stood abruptly, walking to the window, arms folding behind her back. Students crossed the courtyard below. Groups laughed. Someone dropped a notebook. Life continued like nothing had cracked open.
Rhea wasn't among them.
Ling told herself she didn't care.
She told herself she was only waiting because discipline required it.
Because rules mattered.
Because she was the professor here.
Not because she needed to see Rhea's face one more time.
Not because she wanted to ask—furious, wounded, desperate—Why did you run when I was the one bleeding?
She scoffed quietly at herself.
"Hate," she whispered. "This is hate."
She returned to her desk and sat again.
Waited.
Her phone stayed untouched.
Her door stayed open.
Her eyes kept lifting every time footsteps passed.
Still nothing.
Ling's mind filled the silence cruelly.
She's avoiding you.
She doesn't even care enough to come argue.
She's already moved on.
Her throat tightened, just slightly. She swallowed it down.
"No," she said under her breath. "She's stubborn. That's all."
She imagined Rhea outside—deliberately late, deliberately cruel, making Ling wait just to prove she could.
The thought burned.
Ling welcomed the burn.
Come, she thought viciously. Come here so I can remind you why you ran.
Another ten minutes passed.
Nothing.
Ling's fingers dug into the desk.
Anger crept in—not explosive, not violent—but sharp and humiliating.
She hated waiting.
She hated needing.
She hated that the door still mattered.
Her voice came out low, bitter, spoken to no one:
"I hate you, Rhea Nior."
The words didn't steady her.
They never did.
Ling stayed seated long after the time window had realistically passed.
Long after any reasonable student would have come.
She stayed because part of her—small, treacherous, bleeding—still believed Rhea would appear.
Just to fight.
Just to hurt.
Just to exist in the same room again.
Outside, Rhea was already gone.
And Ling didn't know.
She only knew the quiet.
And the waiting.
And the lie she kept telling herself—that this was hatred, not obsession still clawing at her ribs.