The finale of Life Is Strange was a flipping roller coaster. I pretty much just hugged myself in the bathtub while the shower was running after that. It was flipping brilliant—brilliant in the sense that it tore my chest open, pulled out my beating heart and put it back in with no remorse. I'm still a mess and I'm obviously not over it. I've never been this emotionally invested in fictional characters before, and I've seen Game of Thrones.

I'll never forget this masterpiece.

Also, I received an anonymous review regarding Lucy's appearance. If you must know, I based her looks on Korean model and singer, Sooyoung (photo on my bio). Just picture her with gray eyes.

Music: Little Heart by Amarante


CHAPTER 2:

11 Days Before The Storm – 4:00 PM

Forty-five tedious minutes later and the Language of Photography class was over. Jefferson stated his last remarks while the rest began leaving their respective desks. Likewise, I fixed my things and stuffed them in my bag, yet made no move to head for the door. I often had to stay behind to help him out with his duties since I was his student slave. I didn't mind. Contrary to my master-plan of intentionally being mediocre in my classes, I still didn't want to turn down the prospect of earning extra credit. That, and it was also a valid excuse to pull the 'I'm-busy' card whenever people would invite me to "hang out" (hang out was usually a code that meant "to smoke pot in some dingy area").

The sun was setting early today. From where I sat, I saw the rays light up the room and frame it nicely with an orange tint. It was quite a sight to behold, and one that must have been seen by countless pairs of eyes plenty of times. Some may have even captured the scene already, like I was intending to. Taking shots of or during sunsets was what many considered to be the ultimate photographer's cliché. However, I understood—and I wasn't the only one who shared the sentiment—that despite its "overused" status, it still held its beauty. It was just my luck that I brought my camera on a whim.

Click. It would go well to the collection.

"I'd ask you what you thought of the lecture but by the looks of it, you weren't paying attention," I heard Jefferson say, voice laced with both humor and seriousness, as he rifled through his documents. I had expected him to say that. Decades of working on lenses and imagery had turned the man into an astute observer, and no one was exempted from that—not even I, who practically lived and breathed discretion.

I stood up and approached, offering him a sheepish grin. "Sorry. It was my brother. Just wishing me a happy birthday."

To that, he was surprised. "It's your birthday today?"

"No, he's just hyped up about it. For the record, there was something that you said that struck me." That part was true. There was something that struck me, yet the necessity of me mentioning it came from my desire to get him off my back and not because I wanted to gush out my thoughts.

He looked up at me from his laptop and met my eyes, mood subtly lightened and work momentarily forgotten. Just as I had become familiar with his pattern, Jefferson was also aware of mine (or at least with the one I presented him). He knew what was to follow. In the modern realm of vast technological advancements, kids believed anything on the internet—ate it all up without hesitation. That laziness sedated them, thus the role of questioning Jefferson fell upon me; me, who originally came from a time where people could mistake the word wifi for the latest trendy disco dance move. Not once did I ever think that I was the photography teacher's star pupil, although I suspected he enjoyed the discussions we had.

"What was it?" he inquired.

"Earlier, you mentioned that the contrast of details is evident in the play of light and shadow. You sounded as if you were heavily implying that it's the light that needed the shadow," I said.

Jefferson handed to me the bunch of papers he was holding. "The beauty needs the beast in order to...shine, for lack of a better word. I can tell that you're skeptic though, Lucy. Go on. I'm all ears. Tell me your thoughts."

"I think it's the other way around."

"How so?"

"Okay, it's true that shadow creates depth and gives more meaning to a subject. Light also does the same thing by making the image more dynamic and not flat, right? What I think makes it more favorable than the shadow is that the shadow only exists because there is light. Without light, shadow is just darkness; without beauty, the beast is just a monster. Like, um..." I lost my train of thought when the corners of his lips began turning upward. "Something like that, you know"

"Well, I can't argue with that," Jefferson chuckled. "You got me. I'm no Plato to your Aristotle. I don't want to spoil anything since I plan on discussing this further next Monday. The point remains that light and shadow are cohesive. They belong together."

They belong together. Trust Jefferson to say something as poetic as that. If I had been an innocent-enough romanticist ala Alyssa or a pseudo-coy alpha female ala Victoria, and not a walking mid-slash-after-life crisis ala me, I would have replied with something equally lyrical, probably accompanied with a flirtatious flutter of lashes. Instead, I nodded silently, understanding his notions.

"Anyway, I hope you don't have a lot of homework to do later. I've accumulated quite a pile of papers we need to sort out thanks to the Everyday Heroes contest. Which reminds me...you haven't submitted anything yet." There was that playfully admonishing tone again in his voice.

"Oops?" Shit was the more appropriate word for it. I hadn't passed an entry because I had no intentions of joining the contest to begin with. I was not passionate for it as much as the others were. What was the point of joining if I didn't even want to win?

Jefferson sighed. "It's bad enough that there are several of you who haven't submitted anything either."

"Deadline is still next week. We'll get around it," I lied.

It seemed he was going to reply but his phone rang. Jefferson took one good look on the caller id, and the mirth on his face died in an instant—became washed over by an unreadable, tight-lipped expression. It was chilling. Before I could catch a glimpse of who was calling him, he gave me a curt "excuse me, I have to take this" and stepped outside, leaving me to my own devices.

What the hell was that about?


Once upon a time, a girl named Rachel Amber became the alleged prized student of Mark Jefferson, and that lead to the birth of a nasty rumor.

There were many versions to that story, though the general gossip was that they, to put it bluntly, fucked. I wasn't sure whether it was the truth or another unoriginal lie invented by Jefferson's crafty fans. The opportunity to fact-check properly had yet to arrive within my reach for the following reasons: A.) I never knew her, never even saw her except recently in her posters scattered around in the campus, B.) it wasn't like I could just walk up to anyone and casually say "oh hey is it true that Mr. J banged one of his students", and C.) I'd be nosy and probably-definitely insensitive to prod around the matter considering that the aforementioned girl was missing—has been missing for nearly six months now.

I was aware of the fact that there was a possibility I could head down the Rachel Amber path. There were a few rumors concerning him and I circulating Blackwell already. With the amount of exposure I had with Jefferson, that was hardly surprising. Tongues waggled beyond my control. What I did have power over was its rate of escalation. To not add fuel to the fire, I made a conscious effort to strictly follow a set of rules I implemented on myself.

Rule number one was to not stay behind with him later than six in the evening.

The clock in the room read 5:42 PM.

When Jefferson came back from his phone call, I saw how he concealed his agitation. Upon his entry, he was quick to smoothly apologize for his sudden exit and quick to joke that he was being overworked. It was very convincing. Everything felt normal. Laid-back. Relaxed. No one would think anything was wrong, except I was a liar too. The tiny details, the details many overlook, were hidden in plain sight. Even though he moved and functioned with the same self-assured fluidity he had, his shoulders were rigid and squared—tense. He was in his element surrounded by photographs and cameras, yet he did not seem at peace at all. Instead, his eyes remained alert—restless.

Whatever he heard from that phone call, it must not have been good news.

It's none of my business it's none of my business it's none of my business. I kept repeating the mantra in my head as the rhythmic click-tick sound the stapler emitted ended. My work was done. I checked the different piles to make sure everything was organized before grabbing my bag that was more expensive than I cared to admit. Jefferson was still where he was, clicking and typing away at his laptop on the secluded teacher's table. He stared at me expectantly when I neared him.

"Alright, all finished here. These are last week's photo analysis assignments—" I placed paper pile number one on the wooden surface "—last week's documentary reflections—" paper pile number two "—and this week's Expressionism essays—" paper pile number three.

"Ah, yes. Thank you, Lucy. You're a big help," he said.

"It's cool. No problem. Although..."

"Although?"

"I already gave my expressionism essay but it's not in the pile," I said.

"Of course it's not. It's with me. I wanted to talk to you about it." There was a brief pause as he brought out my missing paper and stood up from his seat to face me.

My brows furrowed. "Oh, okay. Is something wrong?"

Jefferson sent a reassuring smile at my direction. "'Expressionism is to reenact the emotional experience in its most intense and concentrated formulation, to paint not the reality of something but instead its interior perception'. I have to say: I found that line incredibly...beautiful. I mean, the way you described it was outstanding."

For once, I allowed my mouth to open without thinking. "Why do I get the feeling you didn't want to talk to me just to stroke my ego?"

"Sharp as always. It's your performance in my class. Now, how is it that you can write something as brilliant as that, and not be able to enter excellency?"

"Pardon?" What was he getting at?

"You don't recite during lectures, your quizzes are consistently average, you haven't submitted a photo for the contest...what's going on? It's like you're holding yourself back."

"Mr. Jefferson, I was not expecting to have this conversation at all. I don't know how to answer that question." I had no explanation ready because it was hard to know who to blame more: me for my recklessness or Jefferson for his attentiveness. The night I wrote that specific essay, I had felt awfully inspired, so I sat down, cautiously poured out on that paper my pent up creativity and intellect, and justified it by telling myself I deserve this. Funny how snap decisions come back to ultimately bite people in their asses.

"Lucy, I've been your teacher for nearly a month now. I've had my eye on each and every one of you, and I can honestly say you're one of the most promising ones here in Blackwell. This paper—" he held the blasted essay up "—is further proof of that. I'm a little disappointed you're not thriving as I expected you to be. I know the last thing you need to hear is some old dude invade your space and lecture you about your studies, but I simply want to hone that potential of yours," he smiled and lightly touched my arm, his fingers and my skin separated by the thin cotton cloth of my hoodie. When he let go, a tiny voice in my mind asked me a question: was that appropriate?

I had the advantage and burden of steering our conversation, and it all relied on my next response. I thought of two choices, and the two separate scenarios that could happen from each: I could either dance around the matter, delaying my leave and potentially pissing Jefferson off, or I could be predictable.

I glanced at the clock again. Ten minutes left 'til six.

Option two, it was.

"I'm sorry I'm not meeting your expectations. I guess I'm just way too carefree. I've never really enjoyed stressing myself too much."

"Don't think of it as pressuring yourself. Think of it as embracing your maximum level. Your youth is all the more reason to spread your wings and shit," he laughed. "Sorry, I got carried away." For what it was worth, Jefferson was talented in scolding and encouraging at the same time.

"How would I even begin to do those things?" I asked in the manner Jefferson presumably anticipated me to: small and mousy. It was the voice of the fragile, unsure girl I incorporated within my new identity—a layer behind the devil-may-care teen facade I used, and a layer beyond the middle-aged road pancake I really was.

He took the bait. "I think you merely need the right push. Someone to motivate you—an inspiration."

"Well, this has been a welcoming wake up call. Yeah, I'll do it. I'll try harder," I said.

"Yes, that's what I wanted to hear," he beamed, so eager and so pleased that I almost felt ashamed. "You can start by entering the contest. I know you won't let me down."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Jefferson."

"Be seeing you, Lucy."


Many thanks to the people who reviewed and followed my story. You people motivate me to keep going. This chapter was supposed to be in chapter one, but I chose to split it because I didn't want it to be too wordy—or is that something you guys don't mind? Would you prefer to have really, really long chapters? Let me know what you think.