THE NIGHT SHE SHOULDN'T REMEMBERPART 2
Morning did not arrive gently.
It crept in through the thin gap between the curtains, pale and intrusive, touching her eyelids like an accusation.
She opened her eyes slowly.
For half a second—just half—she expected to see her.
Dark hair against white sheets.A calm, unreadable expression softened by sleep.A presence that had felt impossibly steady in the chaos of the night.
Instead, there was emptiness.
The other side of the bed was untouched now, smooth and cold, as if no one had ever lain there at all.
Her chest tightened.
She pushed herself up on one elbow, scanning the room.
Nothing.
No discarded jacket.No phone charging by the bedside.No note folded neatly with an explanation she didn't deserve but desperately wanted.
Just silence.
And the faint, lingering scent of something unfamiliar—clean, understated, painfully specific.
She left, her mind supplied.
No drama. No goodbye.
Just… gone.
She sat there for a long moment, blanket pooled around her waist, staring at the door like it might open if she willed it hard enough.
It didn't.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She flinched.
A message.
HIM.
Where did you disappear to last night?We need to talk.
She didn't reply.
Instead, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, feet touching the cool floor, grounding herself in the now.
It was a mistake, she told herself firmly.A reckless, stupid mistake.
People did things like that all the time, didn't they?
They got hurt.They drank too much.They kissed strangers.
They didn't spiral.
She showered quickly, letting the hot water pound against her skin as if it could wash away the memory of unfamiliar hands and a kiss that had felt far too right.
But even as the steam fogged the mirror, her thoughts refused to cooperate.
The woman's voice echoed in her head.
Low. Calm.
Are you sure?
She gripped the edge of the sink.
"Yes," she whispered to her reflection, jaw tightening. "I'm sure."
By the time she left the apartment, she had convinced herself of three things:
One — it was just one night.Two — she would never see her again.Three — it didn't mean anything.
The lie settled uneasily in her chest, but she carried it anyway.
Two weeks passed.
Life resumed its shape, imperfect but familiar.
She forgave him—not because he deserved it, but because holding onto anger required more energy than she had to spare.
They settled into something quieter. Thinner. Like a song played at too low a volume.
University loomed ahead like a promise.
A fresh start.
She clung to that idea with both hands.
The campus buzzed with life on the first day.
Students everywhere—laughing, lost, excited, terrified.
She found her lecture hall early and took a seat near the middle, smoothing her skirt over her knees, heart beating faster than it should have.
It's just nerves, she told herself.
The room slowly filled.
Then—movement at the front.
The chatter died down, replaced by the scrape of shoes against the floor.
She looked up.
And the world tilted.
The woman from the bar stepped into the light.
Not dressed in black this time, but in a tailored blazer. Hair pulled back just as neatly. Glasses perched on her nose.
Professional. Composed.
Unmistakable.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then the woman's gaze found hers.
Recognition flashed—sharp and immediate—before disappearing behind a carefully constructed mask.
The woman turned to the board.
"Good morning," she said, voice steady. Controlled. Exactly the same.
"I'm Professor ——. I'll be teaching this course."
The girl's breath left her lungs.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Her fingers curled against her notebook as if it were the only solid thing left in the room.
No, her mind screamed.No, no, no—
The professor didn't look at her again.
Not once.
Not even when the lecture began.
But the distance didn't help.
If anything, it made everything worse.
Because now the girl knew—
That night hadn't disappeared.
It had followed her here.
And it was standing at the podium, pretending nothing had ever happened.
When the lecture ended, students poured out, chattering excitedly.
She stayed seated.
Heart pounding.
Waiting.
Eventually, the room emptied.
Only then did the professor turn.
Their eyes met again.
This time, the silence was heavy.
Dangerous.
The professor spoke first.
Quietly.
"For both our sakes," she said, voice low and firm, "you will forget that night ever happened."
She hesitated.
Then added—
"THIS WAS A MISTAKE THAT CANNOT BE REPEATED."
The words landed like a verdict.
The girl swallowed.
And realized, with terrifying clarity—
This was far from over.