A Deep blue Cerulean

The door before me is cerulean—a vivid, almost jarring blue that seems to symbolize my sudden unease. A feeling of dread seeps into me, rendering me immobile. If this door were a mirror, reflecting my face back at me, it would scream, urging me to flee.

What's more unsettling? The door's stark contrast to the library's decor or the unfamiliar path we took to get here? Perhaps I'd been too engrossed in freshman year to notice the nuances of the university library.

Then there's the shift in his demeanor, a subtle change in his gaze and voice. His grip on me tightens, his whispers laden with something unspoken, something heavy.

Even if I wanted to escape—to heed the warnings echoing in my mind—I can't. Curiosity, hope, a hint of desire—they keep me rooted in place.

Dating a professor was supposed to be thrilling, wasn’t it?

Moments ago, his lips had met mine against the backdrop of book-lined shelves. Wasn't that thrilling? And when he whispered about a secret upstairs, how could I resist?

Our relationship had begun innocently enough—flirtatious glances, lingering touches, shared silences. Our conversations had strayed from academic matters to personal anecdotes, and our silences had begged for more time together. We were skirting boundaries, testing limits. He'd even ventured into forbidden territory—my dorm room.

"Let me take you to the library tonight," he'd said, his voice tinged with urgency. I'd been breathless, eager. I’d agreed without hesitation.

Hours later, beneath an orange street lamp, his fingers had unlocked the library's double doors. I’d felt a mix of excitement and uncertainty. It wasn't illegal, just against university policy—a policy we'd disregarded.

Inside, the library's scent had enveloped me—a mixture of aged paper and organic decay. His smile had been reassuring, guiding me down the aisles as he shared his passion for literature.

His words had sounded romantic then, his passion infectious. I’d felt special, chosen. I'd allowed myself to be vulnerable, to be read like one of the countless books surrounding us.

But now, a sense of danger looms, casting a shadow over our rendezvous. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up; is it the cold or his breath?

His arms encircle me, and I lean into his embrace, torn between fear and desire. I’d wanted this, hadn’t I? I’d promised myself this year would be different.

I grasp the doorknob, and he chuckles—a sound that feels like a conquest.

As the door swings open, I imagine different outcomes. In one scenario, we share a romantic dinner, our love story becoming a cherished memory. In another, our relationship fizzles out, leaving me heartbroken. In yet another, I flee, seeking refuge in the safety of my dorm room.

But as the door opens, reality shatters my fantasies. The room is bare, devoid of the romance I'd envisioned. There's no table, no candlelight, no violinist—just four walls closing in on me.

In that moment, I wish for mirrors to reflect the truth—to show me the fear in my eyes, to warn me of the danger ahead.

I push the door open, and there is a room that has no table, no white cloth, and no chess board. There is a room with four walls, ones I wish had mirrors on them so I could see my reflection. The realization settling in my eyes would tell me there's a shark in the water, to swim fast, even though I know it's too late. They would tell me the truth: that I might never see the color cerulean again.