Part 1My Dead Ex Is Grading My Thesis

Texting my advisor, practically in tears, to subtly guilt him into processing my stipend.

To make my plea extra pathetic, I tossed in a casual exaggeration: “My boyfriend is dead from starvation.”

His reply was instantaneous: “Boyfriend is dead?”

“Understood. I’ll send him this afternoon.”

I thought he meant the money.

Instead, that afternoon, Professor Harrison Stanford led his prodigal, recently returned-from-overseas son straight to my office.

His son, who was also my… ex-boyfriend, who I’d told everyone had been dead for two years.

…

* * *

The ridiculously tiny grad student stipend was, yet again, weeks past due.

I’m a coward. Give me ten times the guts I have, and I still wouldn’t dare ask Professor Stanford directly.

My only option was to use the classic "send a desperate text to my mom, but send it to the professor instead" strategy. I typed it out:

Mom, I’m skipping the holidays. Tuition money is gone, my Venmo is overdrawn, my boyfriend is dead from starvation, and Professor Stanford is too senile to remember the payroll deadline. Guess I’ll be staying here, living off instant ramen and sheer willpower.

Professor Stanford replied with a single, damning question mark: ?

My phone nearly flew out of my hand. Panicking, I immediately tried to backtrack: I am so sorry, Professor! Wrong person! Please ignore that!

Professor Stanford: Your boyfriend is dead?

Professor Stanford: Understood. I’ll send the boyfriend this afternoon.

My brain short-circuited.

What? We were supposed to get paid at the start of the month. It was almost Christmas break, and I hadn’t heard a single clink of a coin.

Professor Stanford is a brilliant man, but he’s pushing sixty and his memory is shot. I knew exactly what happened: he forgot to submit the payroll form to the Bursar’s Office. Again.

Normally, a month’s delay is inconvenient. But now? The entire administration was about to shut down for two weeks. This meant a two-month delay, minimum. How was I supposed to live? I needed that money just to buy a plane ticket home and look halfway respectable.

I needed to remind him, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.

Just yesterday, I had sent him the initial draft of my thesis—a piece of writing that I knew, deep down, was utter garbage. I sent it, then stuffed my phone into my roommate’s laundry hamper and spent half an hour in the common room doing interpretive dance to relieve the anxiety.

I knew the paper was trash, and sending it was basically giving him an aneurysm.

His reaction was immediate and brutal: “Piper, try shaking your head and listen. Do you hear the faint sound of the ocean?”

I obediently shook my head, then realized a moment too late that he was calling me brain-dead.

“Next time, write more. I was only halfway through this comedic masterpiece.”

Me: "..."

“Well, at least my academic rivals are probably toasting my failure right now, knowing I have a student like you.”

I managed a weak smile. At least my thesis had achieved a level of lethal impact.

Then the phone calls started, a solid thirty minutes of me being verbally destroyed. He ended the call with a simple: “Piper Maxwell! Be ready for the seminar next week!”

See? After being flayed alive yesterday, how was I supposed to demand money today?

But pride is a small price to pay for survival. The Professor might hate me, but my bank account shouldn't have to suffer. If the hard way failed, I'd try the soft way. If the direct route was closed, I’d take a detour.

As I was stewing, my mom messaged me: "Sweetheart, when are you heading home?"

A flash of inspiration.

My fingers flew across the screen, typing out the perfect, melodramatic plea. Copy. Click on the Professor’s contact. Paste. Send.

One smooth, flawless motion.

I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs.

One minute later, the Professor sent that fatal question mark.

I quickly tried to delete the message and play dumb: Oops! Sorry Professor! Hand slipped! Please pretend you didn't see that!

“I saw it.”

Yes! My inner self was throwing a ticker-tape parade. The money was secured!

Then he replied: Your boyfriend is dead?

Understood. I’ll send the boyfriend this afternoon.