Page 15 of Starstruck

he has his own daddy issues

I’d always loved learning—it was the one thing that made school bearable. Before music took over, I’d spend nights in my room, tackling mock papers for exams I wasn’t due to take for another two years. But after the summer of Year 10, when I spent every spare moment fine-tuning my guitar skills and pouring myself into songwriting, studying started to slip away. By the time college came, I was checked out, only coming to life in the music block, where the practical lessons were the only part of the day that mattered.

Music and psychology were the courses I’d picked to study then, though for the life of me, I didn’t know why I’d chosen the latter.

The only explanation I could think of was that, back home, psychology was what you picked when you had no clue what you wanted to do with your life. You didn’t care about the complexities of the human brain, but at least it sounded like you did. That was the unspoken rule.

No one bought it, though. When someone asked, “What are you studying?” and you said, “Psychology,” they knew you were still figuring things out. You’d get the knowing nod, maybe a pat on the shoulder, followed by, “Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out.”

But that was different here. Or so it felt.

Here, when the campus woman who directed me to the building asked what I was here to study, and I said psychology, her brows raised, like she was impressed, and there was nothing sympathetic about her head nod at all.

If I were truly here because I was fascinated by the inner workings of the mind, and not sat in that class because it was the only course that had last minute space, I’d feel like the smartest fucker on this campus.

Well, I would have felt smart if it weren’t for the girl wearing my t-shirt sitting in the front row who raised her hand for every single question that Professor Whatshisname posed to us.

Usually with a cough. He does that a lot.

I knew her the moment I looked up from my phone—the building map I’d been squinting at suddenly forgotten. That wide-eyed gaze was the same one she had last night when I called down to her—the only star in the night sky.

I couldn’t tell if she remembered we’d locked eyes before, but when her gaze dropped to her soaked t-shirt, it was clear she had bigger things on her mind.

She was like a little lightning bolt, her hand striking through the air at such a speed that if I were taking this class because I cared about it, I would’ve wanted to blow my average-sized brains out and switch my major the first chance I got.

Major.

The word felt like an eye roll as it echoed through my head. What even was that, anyway? And why were the rules and regulations of studying over here so bloody complicated?

“Okay, class, that’s it for today. Great job, and remember to take things easy. Take time to get used to the campus. Oh, and make some time to go through pages eighty-eight to ninety-eight in the textbook before tomorrow. Any questions, feel free to holler at me on the way out.”

Professor Whatshisname addressed the room, a collective mumble echoing back at him shortly after. I’d try to do the reading if I found it in myself to pry open the textbook that could pass for an oversized doorstop. I would. But it was my first day, and I still had a lot to come to terms with.

I tried my best not to see the room I was sitting in as a prison, but it was hard. What was harder was that I had no one to blame but myself. So instead, I spent the whole two hours giving in to the strings of lyrics and the beginnings of melodies that I was surprised to feel swirling through my mind.

Whenever that happened, whenever inspiration struck, I usually tuned everything out to write whatever I could of it down. And in a packed lecture hall where the back row was barely under the lighting, it was easy to slip away. And given that I hadn’t been able to write anything since that night, I didn’t feel bad for mentally checking out of the class.

I was still trying to figure out a name for the three-quarters of a song I’d managed to draft as the class got out of their seats and shuffled out of the door, when my attention fell onto my shirt, and the brainbox who was wearing it.

Then the reason why every lyric in this song I suddenly had the inspiration to write revolved around a girl who reminded me of the sun when it shone through the windows became clear in my head.

I tore my eyes off her as she gathered her things from her seat, and instead of having her distract me more, I hurried my steps out of the room along with everyone else.

Two hours.

Two hours it’s taken me to get to this bloody dorm block. Whoever designed the subway system and the eight thousand different lines deserves jail time.

It had been a pain to memorise the tube map growing up, but having to figure out this monstrosity when I didn’t even know if I’d be here longer than a year felt impossible.

As I looked around for my building, my eyes blurring against the early evening chaos on the streets, I tried to make myself believe that this place was no different than London. I tried to make the yellow cabs black and the Target a Tesco. I tried to tell myself that the traffic looked identical to the kind that was racing towards the M25 back home.

But it was pointless—this wasn’t home. Even if that was a good thing, letting go of the home I used to love wasn’t easy.

This place was purgatory to me; somewhere I was stopping off and catching my breath before I got my shit together, cleared my head, set my sights on my future and strode back into the spotlight that I’d know how to exist under this time. I’d come to terms with everything and learn my lesson. And I’d be okay.

I had to be.

“Outta the way, asshole.”

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