No, no, no! This is all wrong! I screamed venomously at my professor; who, despite looking very intently into her student’s eyes, didn’t manage to hear the screaming match between the two of us happening in my head.

How DARE she take my book, the one I spent years writing; countless days and nights fawning over, and use it like this. How DARE she interpret my words, so rehearsed and poetic, to mean those foul things. How DARE she take my hard work, my life’s goal, and use it to fuel her vendetta. My work was NOT hers. My voice was NOT hers. And everything she said, with every puff and sarcastic stare, was wrong.

I didn’t write this book with hidden intent. There was no hidden meaning. Not underlying messages. The blue walls didn’t represent depression. The hero’s fight against the villain doesn’t represent the fight against addiction. Her constant battles, with various armies, didn’t stand for loss or grief or greed.

It was simply a book I’d dreamt up, years ago as a wide eyed high school senior with big dreams, and I brought that to life. That I put into words. Something that meant a lot to me. To my life. To my family.

And here it was, being discussed and degraded in my college Lit class. Being used for unnecessary metaphors, being dissected sentence for sentence, word for word; only for all of it, to be all wrong.

“Are you okay?” My friend whispered to me, clearly noticing the glare that I’m sure consumed my now, angry, wide eyed.

I shook my head, but I couldn’t tell her why. I couldn’t tell her that book was my book. No one in this class, in this school, knew it was mine - only my parents and younger brother, Zay. That was part of the deal my parents made with me, and our publisher. We could only go through it, if it was published anonymously. This was my parents’ way of protecting me, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t grateful. The book took off after a year or so, finding it’s audience amongst women my age (and even men) - the fantasy rom/com genre was the perfect fit; my perfect niche. And honestly, I don’t think I could’ve handled the pressure. The fame. Not at that age.

But I was older now.

I hoped I didn’t regret the decision I was about to make.

I cleared my throat, “mhm,” I stood. “Ms.Stills,” I paused, making sure every eye in this room was on me. They were intrigued. “I don’t think that’s at all what the author intended.”

“Oh? And what makes you so certain?” Her eyebrows were raised, but she didn’t look angry, not yet. “No one knows this author, this author has only ever had ten interviews. And not once, we’re they asked these hard hitting investigative questions that we as journalists are expected to ask!”

That’s what she called her readers, her students, journalists.

“The author never intended those meanings, Ms.Stills. I know that, because I’m the author. I wrote Our Metal Heart. I’m P.A Lucas.”

Me.