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It’s eight in the morning, it’s a Monday, and Heathcliff Blanchett is seated next to the most handsome yet distracting man in the class. He doesn’t know the man’s name— and Heathcliff doesn’t think he ever will, with the way the term has been going and will be ending— but he does know the curl of his lashes with every bat of his eyes and the small chip of his tooth with every unabashed yawn.
Within the four walls of the classroom, Heathcliff sits on the back rows with his gaze directed forward, his fingers twirling a pen. He’s ‘enjoying’ a seven-to-ten morning class of ELEPA— his chosen elective, Philosophical Anthropology. There’s a film still on the screen in front of the lecture hall, combined with scribbles of writing on the whiteboard next to it, a sight owed to the fact that the professor, Sir Bennett, is a cinephile. But to Heathcliff, that’s the mildest way to say it. With every lecture, he makes references: an ever-consuming everything bagel, a DeLorean with the ability to jump to the future and visit the past, the 0.01cm distance between two people in a busy Chungking evening, a cream Fender Strat on car leather seats that await warm hands, the hills being alive with the ‘sound of music.’ To say Sir Bennett is a little eccentric would be met with a gasp of shock, but it is the truth. Don’t be fooled by the professional-looking plaid vest, Heathcliff wants to say.
There is a month left in the term, which, in Heathcliff’s opinion, is plenty enough time for whatever paper Sir Bennett has in store for a term project slash exam. Sir Bennett teaches classes half with discussions and half with films, assigning movies of the week for them to watch. So far, the only thing the students have been bothering themselves with were analyses of the philosophies present in the film to be passed on a weekly basis. However, after some duly noted recalled experiences of his friends from higher years, a reflection paper about the aforementioned movies seems overdue.
Papers are no issue to Heathcliff. He’d argue it’s his strength, preferring to earn grades through written outputs rather than recitations. Recitations were a big no to him, but it’s not like it’s an issue; this class doesn’t encourage it… Sir Bennet prefers to do the talking more than half the time. If not that, then he’d leave the class to think away on wordy worksheets as the clock ticks by. That, Heathcliff had no complaints about. What he dislikes are the reflection papers— it was already hard to put his feelings in a manner comprehensible enough to him in self-reflection. What more if he had to make his thoughts palatable to another person who had to put a grade on his words?
“For today’s output,” Sir Bennett says as the hands of the clock hurriedly approach nine, clapping twice to gain the attention of the half-dozing-off students. “I want you to work in pairs with the person beside you. Ah, ah. No ruckus or violent reactions, please. This is for convenience.”
Ah . Heathcliff slowly turns his head to meet Mr. Mysterious-Handsome-Man’s eyes. He’s already looking at Heathcliff, chin propped up by a fist and expression entirely unamused. Crap . A part of Heathcliff feels a chill run up his spine and heat grow on his cheeks. Heathcliff gives Mr. Mysterious-Handsome-Man a small smile that feels more like a grimace as it etches itself across his features.
Sir Bennett continues, “It’s a worksheet with a twist. There are four sheets of paper, but you’ll only need to pass two to me. You can keep the green sheets. What you’ll need to pass is this white feedback sheet after you’re done with the first part of the activity, which is filling in the green sheets.”
A few scattered murmurs later, Heathcliff finds himself holding two sheets of paper. One green, one white. He eyes the white paper to be submitted first. It’s a feedback sheet asking for the student’s opinion on the exchange held within the first activity. Was it fun, accurate, enlightening, or insert-generic-prompt-words-in-reflection-papers-here? Great . A reflection paragraph.
No time to dwell on it. Heathcliff places the green paper on top. He narrows his eyes as he reads the words on the paper. ‘Impressions matter! What is _____________’s opinion on _____________?’ and it is followed by what Heathcliff can only assume is the world’s most drama-inducing table: there is a Likert scale, ranging from one to five— highly agree to highly disagree— with statements that are extremely… well, something . For one, the first statement is ‘They are attractive.’ The bottom of the paper says, ‘Exchange with your partner and answer the feedback paper.’
Heathcliff blinks once, twice, thrice. Many choice words swirling in his head answer the first question. Thankfully, he does not have to write them down. Instead, he can just check off his opinion. Awesome. Amazing, even. Sir Bennett established himself within the list of professors Heathcliff will never voluntarily take ever again.
He steals a glance at Mr. Mysterious-Handsome-Man. He is hunched over his desk, pen rapidly moving down the paper. Heathcliff barely restrains the urge to balk at the lack of hesitation. The idea that he already has thoughts on Heathcliff despite a lack of exchange between them is simply… making Heathcliff nervous. If not for his own image, then for whatever verdict this man has on him.
After begrudgingly answering ten questions, Heathcliff huffs and turns to look at Mr. Mysterious-Handsome-Man. He’s twirling a pen on his fingers and idly shaking his leg as he catches Heathcliff’s eyes once more. He holds out his hand and speaks in a rather smooth voice, “Took you a while.”
“Sorry,” Heathcliff answers with a hint of nervousness as he hands over the damning green sheet. In exchange, he receives his seatmate’s green sheet. Here comes an opinion. Heathcliff doesn’t think he’s ready for the first one.
‘They are attractive; highly agree.’
Huh.
Huh? Heathcliff looks at Mr. Mysterious-Handsome-Man. He’s leaning back on his seat, eyebrows raised and an amused smile all over his face as he reads Heathcliff’s green sheet. That expression and his answer to the first statement are enough to send Heathcliff into a cold sweat. Over what, exactly? He doesn’t know either. All he knows is that he is now overly conscious of how he fits into his clothes and how the room seems to be dipping between high and cold temperatures every second.
Heathcliff decides it may be better to focus on the paper in his hand. He reads the next statements. All of them are positive. He doesn’t know whether to feel flattered or indifferent; for all he knows, Mr. Mysterious-Handsome-Man might have answered whatever sounded good in the name of being polite or zero conflict. Not like Heathcliff would start it.
Mr. Mysterious-Handsome-Man turns to Heathcliff with a chuckle. He taps the paper on his hand with the tip of his pen. He says, “So, you think I’m attractive, but you don’t have a good general impression of me?”
“I didn’t disagree ,” Heathcliff shakes his head, ignoring the way his head suddenly started to ache with the mention of finding his seatmate attractive. “I checked off neutral . I mean, I can’t make a judgment on what kind of person you are without talking to you, can’t I?”
“Fair.” He snorts. He taps the paper again, “And you left my name blank.”
Right. He doesn’t know and hasn’t bothered to ask for a name. Heathcliff quickly looks down at the paper in his hand. ‘Impressions matter! What is Shino ’s opinion on Heathcliff ?’
“...Sorry, it passed my mind, Shino,” Heathcliff blatantly lies. It sounds obvious even to his ears. And speaking Mr. Mysterious-Handsome-Man— no, Shino’s name, felt strange. Finally, a name for that constantly bored face.
Shino’s eyes rake up and down Heathcliff’s figure, making Heathcliff almost want to dig a hole in the marble tiles of the classroom and vanish. Shino deadpans, “Did you.”
“...I didn’t know your name,” Heathcliff admits. “I’m sorry.”
Silence simmers in the air between the two for a beat. Then, Shino crosses his arms and says, “Shino Sherwood, first year. I took Philo-Anthro for my first elective because I thought it was less boring than Academic Writing. I was proven wrong in the first class. And you?”
Confusion spreads all over Heathcliff’s face. A sudden introduction? He tilts his head. “Huh?”
“And you?” Shino repeats.
“No, no, I heard. I’m just… where is this coming from?”
“Didn’t you say ‘agree’ to wanting to get to know me more?” Shino answers, wiggling the green sheet between his fingers. The words are enough to make Heathcliff glance away from Shino momentarily. “There we have it. Now, introduce yourself, too.”
But you already know , Heathcliff wanted to say. And you’re bossy . Still, he replies, “Heathcliff Blanchett. Ah, second-year Engineering major. Nice to meet you.”
Shino smiles at Heathcliff, slightly mischievous and somewhat pleased with himself despite the mundanity of the situation, and— oh . Shino may no longer be Mr. Mysterious-Handsome-Man, but Heathcliff thinks he’s still Mr. Handsome, at least.