Chapter 4 Is This Love?

Isabella's POV

I practically sprinted to my major class.

I was late.

The professor was already at the podium, his voice filling the room as he explained some complex theory.

I kept my head down and slipped through the back door, my eyes frantically scanning the lecture hall, terrified of being singled out.

The classroom was packed, with only one empty seat left in the far corner of the back row.

I held my breath, hunched over, and crept toward it as quietly as possible, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Only after I'd slid into the seat did I dare lift my head and exhale quietly. My nerves, which had been wound impossibly tight all morning, finally eased just a fraction.

The person next to me seemed to notice my arrival and turned to look.

It was him.

Elliot Thomas.

The quiet accompanist from the practice room who was always at the piano and rarely spoke.

I was surprised—I hadn't expected to see him here.

I'd thought he only existed in practice rooms, keeping company with nothing but the piano.

He gave me a small nod, his eyes gentle, as if to say he'd already marked me present so the professor would count me here.

Then he turned his attention back to the podium, his expression focused.

It was such a simple gesture, yet somehow it loosened the tight knot of emotions I'd been carrying all morning.

At least not everyone was like Sophia, watching and waiting for me to fail.

I pulled my notebook and pen from my bag and set them on the desk, putting on the appearance of an attentive student, but my pen wouldn't touch the paper.

The professor's voice sounded muffled, like it was coming through water. I could hear every word clearly, but those words wouldn't form complete sentences in my mind—in one ear and out the other.

My head was a mess, filled with scenes from this morning's hallway confrontation.

All I could see was Sophia's aggressive expression, her hand resting on Maurice's arm, and the spectators' gazes around us. Those fragments played on loop like a video I couldn't stop.

What I found hardest to accept was Maurice's attitude.

"Getting worked up over someone like that only brings you down to her level."

"You've just been under too much pressure lately, that's why you're being so sensitive..."

Sensitive?

He actually thought I was being too sensitive, thought I was making something out of nothing?

I gripped my pen so tightly my knuckles went white. The tip felt like it might snap.

I found myself thinking back to how Maurice and I first met.

It was last winter, in the campus library.

It had been snowing heavily that day, fat flakes falling steadily, quickly blanketing the entire campus in white.

I'd stayed in the library until closing, buried in research materials, only reluctantly packing up when the bell rang.

When I walked outside, I found the snow had already piled up thick. Each step made a satisfying crunch as my shoes pressed into the fresh powder. The wind cut straight through my clothes, making me shiver.

I stood at the entrance, frozen, unsure whether I should just push forward through the storm and let the cold swallow me whole.

That's when he appeared in front of me, holding a black umbrella.

"Let me walk you home."

His voice was quiet when he spoke, and he seemed a bit shy. His face was flushed from the cold wind, but his eyes were earnest.

I recognized him as a student from the neighboring college. We'd taken the same elective together but had never really talked.

I couldn't even remember his name at first.

But he remembered me.

He said, "You're Isabella, right? The one who plays violin."

That evening, he walked me all the way to my apartment building. He angled most of the umbrella toward me, and his own shoulder and sleeve got soaked through, turning purple from the cold, yet he still stood at my door smiling and asking if I was warm enough.

After that, he started appearing frequently in my life.

He'd bring me breakfast, show up at the practice room door after I finished rehearsing, study with me in the library, and sit quietly in the corner listening to me play piece after piece.

He didn't talk much back then, had an introverted personality, and there were hardly any other girls around him.

The way he looked at me was always so focused, as if I was the only person in his world.

We fell together naturally.

I thought that was love.

I thought he would always be that Maurice who only had eyes for me, would always stand by my side, protect me, and put me first.

But I didn't notice when he started to change.

He became more and more popular, started joining various clubs and activities, and more and more girls appeared around him.

Sophia, Susan...

I'd felt uneasy for a while, but I kept forcing myself not to overthink it, making myself trust him, trust what we had, telling myself not to doubt so easily.

I kept convincing myself to believe in his devotion to me, believe in our relationship, believe he wouldn't let me be hurt so casually.

But everything that happened this morning was like a slap across the face, leaving me stunned and shattering all my trust into pieces.

It turned out the devotion I thought I had couldn't make him stand up for me without hesitation when I was being humiliated.

It turned out the love I thought we shared wasn't even as important to him as what he called "not letting such petty matters affect you."

"Pfft."

A soft laugh came from beside me, faint but enough to interrupt my spiral and pull me back to reality.

I snapped to attention and turned to look at Elliot.

He had his head down, his pen moving quickly across his notebook, with a barely suppressed smile at the corner of his mouth.

Curious, I couldn't help leaning slightly toward him to peek at what he was drawing.

It wasn't class notes at all, but a cartoon.

On the paper, a round walrus wearing a suit and glasses stood at a podium, pontificating. The exaggerated expression and hairstyle looked exactly like our balding professor—it was both ridiculous and oddly endearing.

I couldn't help but laugh softly.

"Is this going to be on the final?" I lowered my voice, suppressing my laughter, and teased him quietly.

Elliot looked up, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses, and replied in a low voice, "No, this is a bonus question. Extra credit if you get it right."

His deadpan delivery was too much—I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

The tight knot of emotions in my chest seemed to be gently blown away by this simple joke.

"Alright, that's all for today. You're dismissed early."

The professor at the podium closed his book.

I let out a long breath and started gathering my things.

"Bad day?" Elliot asked casually as he tucked his notebook full of doodles into his bag.

I paused, just nodded slightly, and didn't elaborate. I didn't want to dump my problems on someone else.

"The audition's next week. Don't overthink it." He stood and pushed his chair back under the desk, his tone calm but comforting. "You play beautifully. Elena just has high standards for you."

After saying that, he smiled at me—a clean, gentle smile. Then he picked up his bag, ready to leave.

I walked out with him.

The moment we stepped into the hallway, I saw a familiar figure.

Maurice was leaning against the wall across from the classroom, head down, apparently lost in thought. He looked dejected, his shoulders slightly slumped.

Hearing footsteps, he looked up and immediately spotted me, and Elliot beside me.

His gaze moved back and forth between us, and his expression, which had softened slightly, immediately darkened.

The air grew heavy and awkward.

Elliot clearly sensed the shift. He stopped, glanced at Maurice, then at me.

He didn't ask anything, just nodded.

"I'll head out then. See you at the practice room, Isabella."

With that, he turned and walked down the hallway in the opposite direction without looking back.

Only Maurice and I remained.

Maurice walked toward me and stopped in front of me.

"Let's grab lunch together, okay? I want to talk."

I looked up at him. The hurt from being dismissed this morning was still there, the sting from his word "sensitive" was still there, and that disappointment and heartache still pressed heavily on my chest.

But when I saw how he looked now, saw the obvious redness in his eyes, and that careful, afraid-of-being-rejected expression, my heart still softened against my will.

I was silent for a long time, so long that the crowd in the hallway gradually dispersed.

Maurice and I walked side by side toward the cafeteria.

The lunch bell had just rung, and the hallway suddenly flooded with people. The crowd pushed us in different directions—it was noisy and chaotic all around.

I got bumped in the shoulder by a guy carrying an oversized backpack, my body lurching sideways, losing my balance, about to have an intimate meeting with the floor.

I instinctively squeezed my eyes shut.

Please, God, don't let me eat it in front of Maurice.