Page 82 of Impulse Control
I’ll take any version of you I can get.
He meant it. I knew that. I adored him for it—and what should have been comforting, instead felt like another promise I wasn’t sure I could keep.
By the time I made it to campus, I’d already rehearsed my presentation twice in my head and forgotten half of what I’d planned to say.
Thomas was already there, tapping his pen against his notebook like he was snapping photos rapid fire—or maybe composing a mental symphony. With Thomas it could be either. Noor gave me a small, sympathetic smile as I slid into my seat.
“You look exhausted,” she whispered. “Are you okay?”
“Define okay,” I murmured back.
The room filled in around us. Chairs scraped. Laptops opened. Someone dropped a memory card and swore under their breath. Normal, low-level academic chaos.
Then the door opened.
Mischa didn’t rush. She didn’t need to. She crossed the room with the same measured precision she used when studying an image—hands loose at her sides, posture immaculate, eyes already assessing before she’d even reached the front.
She wore black again. Not dramatic black. Practical black. The kind that made her blend into shadows and stand out against white walls at the same time.
She didn’t greet us.
She set her bag down, placed her notes beside it, and looked up.
Waiting.
Not for us to be silent or to ask permission. No, she was waiting for someone to begin. That someone—today anyway—was me.
My stomach sank.
The photos I brought to Mischa’s critique were fine.
Not bad. Not great. Just… fine.
Which somehow felt worse than failing.
They appeared one by one on the wall—clean, composed, technically solid. The kind of images that looked impressive at first glance and forgettable ten seconds later.
A woman crossing a street at golden hour.
A child laughing mid-motion.
Reflections in glass. Light on stone. Faces caught between expressions.
All perfectly framed moments.
I didn’t say anything. I’d rehearsed my presentation on the way in—talking points, context, intention—but now the words felt thin, like they belonged to someone else’s work. I watched the images instead, trying to see what Mischa was seeing.
She studied them in silence, arms crossed, head tilted slightly to one side like she was listening for something that wasn’t there.
The projector hummed behind her. Too loud. Too steady.
Someone shifted in their chair. Thomas cleared his throat and immediately stopped. Noor’s knee bumped against mine under the desk, a quiet gesture of sympathy I didn’t deserve.
No one spoke.
Not even Mischa.
“These look like someone who is tired,” she said.
