It had to be done. 

It was a shame, truly. The man was growing on me. He was in my Monday classes, so I saw him weekly, without fail. Funnily enough, he wore the same exact cuffed tan pants and dirty white Converse every week. I don’t even think he washed them (the pants, not the shoes). He was the kind of man who could put in virtually no effort and still be beloved by everyone, because he had charisma (and also, he was a white cisgender man). I admired him for that (the charisma, not the man part). 

One day, the man in question even leaned over and talked shit about the professor with me. Yes, that’s right. He chose me to talk to. There were slightly misogynist undertones to what he said, but I agreed with him—the male professors did have their shit together more. And he was just so damn charming.  

Then, one Monday night, things started to take a turn for the worse.

I had been feeling a bit ill throughout the day (you know when you get a cold, and you think, what if it’s COVID? What if I’m the anomaly case that has to go into the hospital and they can’t save me and I die? But then you remember that you had COVID last week, and you were fine. But you still worry that your life could be thrown horribly off balance by the sickness. And then that keeps you up at night). So when night did come, I was restless. I fell asleep at 12am, only to wake up three hours later. I spent the rest of the night rewatching Bridgerton (only season 2, and only Kate/Anthony scenes). I’m not sure if it was the anxiety of watching Kate and Anthony pine for each other for eight hours (with a five second resolution! The injustice) or seeing the early hours of the morning turn to daylight, but something seeped the energy from my body. 

By the time I had to get dressed on Tuesday morning, I could barely get out of bed, much less pick out an entire outfit. So I rewore my outfit from Monday. I looked cute on Monday. I always did. My outfits were meticulously planned out on Mondays. But Tuesday was a throw away day. I wouldn’t see anyone on Tuesday. Not anyone that I cared about, at least. 

But then it happened. I was walking on the street, and I saw him. Him and his stupid dirty shoes and (probably dirty) tan cuffed pants. There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t hide, I couldn’t run. It was too late. Our paths were going to cross. 

As we passed each other, our eyes met. I saw him take in my outfit. It was a split second, but it was enough. He had seen it. 

I knew what I had to do. 

He went quietly, in his sleep. There was no need for violence. I liked him, remember? 

And I kept his clothes (don’t worry! I washed the pants first. I’m not a monster). They’re in the back of my closet. Just in case I need another Tuesday outfit. 

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