CHAPTER 3: Chaos on a Monday: Or, How to Accidentally Confess Your Curse to Your Crush

Hannah has never appreciated the concept of "Monday morning" quite as much as she does right now, standing in front of her first-period class, trying to remember what a complete sentence is.

It's been three days since the curse activated. Three nights of transforming into a golden retriever at sunset and back into a human at sunrise. Three nights of sleeping on her apartment floor because climbing onto furniture as a dog feels weird and wrong. Three mornings of waking up naked and disoriented with Ellen's spare clothes laid out nearby because apparently her sister has become her unofficial curse manager.

Hannah is exhausted in a way she didn't know was possible. The kind of exhaustion that makes her bones ache and her eyes feel like they're full of sand. The kind that makes standing upright feel like a Herculean effort.

"Miss Hannah?" One of her students—Kayla, a junior with purple streaks in her hair—raises her hand tentatively. "Are you okay? You look kind of... pale."

"I'm fine," Hannah says automatically, then realizes she's been staring at the whiteboard for approximately thirty seconds without writing anything. "Just tired. Late night grading papers."

This is a lie. Hannah hasn't graded anything in three days. She's been too busy being a dog.

"You sure?" Another student, Marcus (not the birthday party Marcus, a different Marcus—why are there so many Marcuses in the world?), leans forward with genuine concern. "You've been acting weird all morning. Like, weirder than usual."

"Gee, thanks."

"I mean it in a nice way."

"There's no nice way to tell your teacher she's acting weird, Marcus."

"I'm just saying, you seem stressed. Are you okay?"

The thing is, Marcus is right. Hannah is stressed. She's beyond stressed. She's operating in some new realm of stress that doesn't have a name yet. Stress-adjacent. Stress-plus. Stress-with-a-side-of-existential-crisis.

Because it's not just the transformations. It's everything else. It's trying to act normal at school while knowing that in approximately eight hours, she's going to turn into a dog. It's watching the clock tick down throughout the day, counting the minutes until sunset. It's the constant, gnawing anxiety that someone will find out, that she'll transform in public, that her entire life will implode in the most spectacular way possible.

And it's the knowledge that Sean—quiet, dog-phobic Sean from the math department—is the only person who can save her, and she has no idea how to even start that conversation.

"I'm fine," Hannah says again, forcing a smile. "Really. Now, can someone remind me what we were discussing? Because I've completely lost my train of thought."

"The Great Gatsby," Kayla supplies helpfully. "You were talking about the green light symbolism."

"Right. Yes. The green light." Hannah turns back to the whiteboard and writes "GREEN LIGHT = HOPE/DESIRE/UNATTAINABLE DREAMS" in slightly shaky handwriting. "So, Gatsby sees this light across the bay, and it represents everything he wants but can't have. It's a symbol of—"

She stops mid-sentence because she's just realized that she is, in fact, Gatsby. She's staring across a metaphorical bay at Sean, who represents everything she needs but can't have because he's terrified of the exact thing she becomes every night.

"Miss Hannah?"

"Sorry. Symbol of longing. Of the American Dream. Of the fundamental human desire to reach for something just beyond our grasp." Hannah's voice cracks slightly on the last word. "Gatsby spends his whole life chasing this dream, and it destroys him. Because sometimes the thing you want most is the thing that will ruin you."

The class stares at her in uncomfortable silence.

"That got dark," Marcus says finally.

"Literature is dark, Marcus. That's why we read it."

"I thought we read it because it's on the curriculum."

"That too."

Hannah makes it through the rest of first period by sheer force of will and several cups of coffee that she's pretty sure are the only thing keeping her upright. By the time the bell rings, she's counted down the hours until sunset approximately forty-seven times and has developed a nervous habit of checking her phone every three minutes to make sure she hasn't somehow lost track of time.

Second period is worse. Third period is a disaster. By fourth period, Hannah has given up on actual teaching and has put on the movie version of Romeo and Juliet (the Leonardo DiCaprio one, because at least it keeps the students entertained) while she sits at her desk and tries not to fall asleep.

She's watching the clock. Always watching the clock.

5:47 PM sunset today. She checked three times this morning. She has seven hours and twenty-three minutes. Seven hours and twenty-two minutes. Seven hours and twenty-one minutes.

This is her life now.

By the time the final bell rings, Hannah is running on fumes and spite. She's dismissed her last class, gathered her things, and is seriously considering just going home and hiding in her apartment until this whole curse thing blows over (which, according to Ellen, could be never, so that's not a great plan).

She's shoving papers into her bag when there's a knock on her classroom door.

Hannah looks up.

Sean is standing in the doorway.

Sean. The person she kissed. The person who can break her curse. The person who is terrified of dogs and has no idea that Hannah turns into one every night.

"Hey," he says, giving her a small, awkward wave. "Sorry to bother you. Do you have a minute?"

Hannah's brain short-circuits. "I—yes. Sure. What's up?"

Sean steps into the classroom, and Hannah is suddenly, acutely aware of how tired she must look. She hasn't slept properly in three days. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun that's more "gave up on life" than "casual chic." She's pretty sure there's a coffee stain on her shirt.

And Sean looks... fine. He looks completely normal. Well-rested. His dark hair is neatly combed, his glasses are clean, and he's wearing a button-down shirt that actually looks ironed.

Hannah hates him a little bit.

"I wanted to ask about one of your students," Sean says, pulling out his phone. "Emily Chen. She's in your third-period class, right?"

"Yeah. Emily. She's great. Why?"

"She's struggling in my calculus class, and I'm trying to figure out if it's a math thing or a broader issue. I know she's usually a strong student, so I wanted to check if she's having trouble in other classes too."

This is a completely reasonable question. This is the kind of interdepartmental collaboration that the administration is always encouraging. This is normal teacher stuff.

But Hannah can't focus on any of that because she's just noticed the time on the wall clock.

5:23 PM.

Twenty-four minutes until sunset.

Twenty-four minutes until she transforms into a dog in the middle of her classroom while Sean—dog-phobic Sean—is standing three feet away from her.

"Hannah?" Sean's voice pulls her back to the present. "Are you okay? You look kind of pale."

"I'm fine," Hannah says automatically, which is becoming her default response to everything. "Emily's doing fine in my class. I think she's just stressed about college applications. She's applying to a bunch of competitive schools, and I think the pressure is getting to her."

"That makes sense." Sean nods, making a note on his phone. "I'll talk to her about maybe getting a tutor or—"

He stops because Hannah has just grabbed the edge of her desk, her knuckles going white.

The tingling has started. That same sensation from the first night—like electricity running under her skin, like her body is preparing to betray her in the most fundamental way possible.

"Hannah?" Sean takes a step closer, concern evident on his face. "Are you sure you're okay? You really don't look good."

"I'm fine," Hannah says through gritted teeth. "Just—I think I'm coming down with something. You should probably go. I don't want to get you sick."

"Do you need me to call someone? Or drive you home?"

"No! No, I'm fine. I just need to—" Another wave of tingling, stronger this time. Hannah checks the clock again. 5:26 PM. Eighteen minutes. "I need to lie down for a minute. You should go. Really."

Sean doesn't move. "Hannah, you're scaring me. Should I call the nurse?"

"The nurse left an hour ago. I'm fine. Please just—" Hannah's voice cracks. "Please just go."

There's something in her tone that finally gets through to him. Sean backs toward the door, still looking worried. "Okay. But text me if you need anything, okay? Or call Ellen. Or—"

"I will. Thank you. Goodbye."

Hannah practically shoves him out of the classroom and slams the door behind him. She leans against it for a moment, breathing hard, feeling the transformation building under her skin like a storm about to break.

Eighteen minutes.

She needs to find somewhere safe. Somewhere private. Somewhere no one will find her when she's a dog.

The bathroom is too public. Someone could walk in. Her car is in the parking lot, but what if someone sees her transform? What if a student is still hanging around?

The storage closet.

There's a storage closet at the end of the hallway, full of old textbooks and broken equipment. No one ever goes in there. It's perfect.

Hannah grabs her bag and runs.

She makes it to the storage closet with twelve minutes to spare. She locks the door behind her, shoves a box of outdated grammar textbooks against it for good measure, and collapses onto the floor.

The tingling is getting worse. Her vision is starting to blur at the edges. She can feel her bones beginning to shift, her spine starting to curve.

"Not yet," she whispers. "Please, not yet. Just a few more minutes."

But the curse doesn't care about her pleading. It never does.

The transformation hits her like a wave, and Hannah bites down on her sleeve to keep from screaming. The pain is just as bad as the first time—that deep, pervasive ache as her body rearranges itself into something it was never meant to be. Her hands blur into paws. Her legs buckle. Her spine curves in ways that should be impossible.

And then it's over.

Hannah—now a golden retriever—lies on the floor of the storage closet, panting, her heart racing. She can hear everything. The hum of the fluorescent lights in the hallway. The distant sound of a janitor's cart. The faint conversation of two teachers in a classroom three doors down.

She's a dog. Again. For the fourth night in a row.

And she's trapped in a storage closet until sunrise.

Hannah curls up on the floor, rests her head on her paws, and waits for morning.

Tuesday morning, Hannah walks into school looking like death warmed over.

She transformed back at sunrise, as always. She got dressed in the spare clothes Ellen had hidden in her car (because apparently Ellen is thinking of everything). She drove to school in a daze, her body aching, her mind foggy.

She's halfway to her classroom when Lee intercepts her.

"Hannah." He grabs her arm gently, steering her toward an empty classroom. "We need to talk."

"I'm fine," Hannah says automatically.

"You're not fine. You look like you haven't slept in a week." Lee closes the classroom door behind them and turns to face her. "What's going on? And don't say 'nothing' because I know you, and I know when something's wrong."

Hannah opens her mouth to deflect, to make a joke, to do anything other than tell the truth.

But she's so tired.

She's so, so tired.

And Lee is looking at her with such genuine concern, such kindness, that something inside her just... breaks.

"I'm cursed," she says.

Lee blinks. "What?"

"I'm cursed. There's a family curse. It's been going on for four generations. When a woman in my family kisses someone for the first time, she transforms into a dog every night at sunset. She stays a dog until sunrise. Every single night, for the rest of her life, unless the person she kissed falls in love with her and kisses her while she's in dog form."

The words tumble out in a rush, and Hannah can't stop them. She tells him everything. The party. The accidental kiss. Waking up as a dog. Ellen's explanation. The discovery that she kissed Sean—Sean, who is terrified of dogs. The nightly transformations. The exhaustion. The fear. The desperate, impossible hope that somehow, some way, she can make this work.

When she's finished, Lee is staring at her in complete silence.

"Say something," Hannah whispers.

"You're serious."

"I'm serious."

"You turn into a dog. Every night."

"Every night."

"And the only person who can break the curse is Sean. Who is terrified of dogs."

"Yes."

Lee runs a hand through his hair. "Okay. Okay. This is... this is a lot."

"I know."

"But I believe you."

Hannah's head snaps up. "You do?"

"Hannah, I've known you for two years. You're not the kind of person who makes up elaborate stories for attention. And you look genuinely terrified right now." Lee sits down on the edge of a desk. "Plus, it explains why you've been acting so weird lately. I thought you were just stressed about the party, but this... this makes more sense."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

"Don't apologize. This is insane. I can't imagine what you're going through." Lee pauses. "What can I do to help?"

The question catches Hannah off guard. "You want to help?"

"Of course I want to help. You're my friend. And you're dealing with something impossible." Lee pulls out his phone. "Okay, let's think about this logically. You need Sean to fall in love with you and kiss you while you're a dog. That means we need to accomplish two things: one, get Sean to fall in love with you as a human. Two, get him to overcome his dog phobia enough to kiss a dog."

"When you put it that way, it sounds even more impossible."

"It's not impossible. It's just... challenging." Lee starts typing notes on his phone. "What do we know about Sean's phobia? How bad is it?"

"Bad. He has a therapist. He wrote a blog about it. He can't even watch dog videos without panicking."

"Okay, so we're working with severe cynophobia. That's going to be the biggest obstacle." Lee looks up. "But phobias can be treated. Exposure therapy, cognitive behavioral therapy, medication if necessary. The question is, how do we get Sean to even consider treatment when he doesn't know why it matters?"

"I don't know. I can't exactly tell him 'hey, you need to get over your dog phobia because I turn into a dog every night and you're the only person who can save me.'"

"No, but you can befriend him. Build a connection. Make him care about you enough that when the truth comes out—and it will come out eventually—he'll be willing to try."

Hannah sinks into a chair. "How do I even start? We barely know each other. We work in different departments. We don't have anything in common."

"You're both teachers. That's something." Lee sits beside her. "Start small. Sit near him at lunch. Ask him about his classes. Compliment his teaching. Find common ground."

"And then what? Hope he magically falls in love with me before I lose my mind?"

"Basically, yes." Lee's smile is sympathetic. "I know it's not a great plan. But it's the only plan we have."

Hannah closes her eyes. "This is insane."

"It really is."

"I'm going to fail."

"You're not going to fail. You're smart and funny and determined. If anyone can make this work, it's you."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"I'm saying it because it's true." Lee stands up and offers her his hand. "Come on. We have planning period next. Let's do some research on Sean's phobia and figure out what we're dealing with."

Hannah takes his hand and lets him pull her to her feet. "Thank you. For believing me. For helping."

"That's what friends are for."

Over the next few days, Hannah becomes a woman on a mission.

She starts sitting near Sean at lunch. Not right next to him—that would be too obvious—but close enough that they end up in the same conversations. She asks him about his calculus classes. She compliments a lesson she overheard him teaching. She mentions that she's terrible at math and could use some help understanding statistics for a research project she's working on.

Sean is surprised by the attention, but he's not unfriendly. He's actually kind of sweet, in a quiet, reserved way. He talks about his younger brother Adam, who's applying to colleges. He mentions that he volunteers at a community center on weekends, teaching math to underprivileged kids. He's passionate about education in a way that reminds Hannah why she became a teacher in the first place.

And slowly, carefully, they start to become friends.

It's surreal. Hannah is befriending the person who holds her entire future in his hands, and he has no idea. She's laughing at his jokes and sharing stories about her students and pretending that everything is normal, when in reality, she's counting down the hours until sunset every single day.

By Wednesday, they're having coffee together during planning period. By Thursday, Sean is texting her funny memes about teaching. By Friday, Hannah realizes with a jolt that she actually likes him. Not in a romantic way—not yet—but as a person. He's smart and kind and genuinely cares about his students. He's the kind of person she would want to be friends with even if her entire existence didn't depend on it.

Which makes what she has to do even harder.

Because at some point, she's going to have to tell him the truth. And when she does, there's a very real chance that he'll run away and never speak to her again.

But she can't think about that now. Right now, she just has to keep building the connection. Keep making him care. Keep hoping that when the moment comes, he'll choose to stay.

Friday afternoon, Hannah and Sean are in her classroom after school, talking about a student they both teach. The conversation has drifted from academics to personal stuff—Sean is telling her about his brother's college visits, and Hannah is half-listening while also keeping one eye on the clock.

4:47 PM. One hour until sunset.

She's fine. She has plenty of time. She'll wrap up this conversation in the next ten minutes, make an excuse to leave, and transform safely in her car before driving home.

It's fine. Everything is fine.

"So Adam is deciding between Berkeley and Stanford," Sean is saying, "and I keep telling him that both are great schools, but he's convinced that one is objectively better than the other, and I'm like, 'Dude, you're going to get a great education either way, just pick the one that feels right,' but he won't listen because—"

"Why do you hate dogs so much?"

The question comes out of nowhere, and Hannah immediately regrets it. But she's been thinking about it all week. She's been watching Sean, getting to know him, and the dog phobia is this huge, looming obstacle that she can't ignore anymore.

Sean stops mid-sentence. "What?"

"Dogs. You hate them. Why?"

"I don't hate them. I'm just... I have a phobia."

"I know. But why? What happened?"

Sean's expression closes off. "It's personal."

"I know, but—"

"Hannah, I don't want to talk about it."

"But I need to understand—"

"Why?" Sean's voice is sharper now. "Why do you need to understand? It's my phobia. It's my business."

"Because it's not just your business!" Hannah's frustration is bubbling over. She's tired and stressed and desperate, and she can't keep pretending that this doesn't matter. "Because your phobia affects other people too. Because maybe if you actually dealt with it instead of just avoiding dogs for the rest of your life, you'd—"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know that you're letting fear control your life!"

"And you're not?" Sean stands up, his face flushed. "You think I don't notice how you've been acting lately? You're exhausted all the time. You're jumpy. You keep checking your phone like you're waiting for bad news. You're clearly dealing with something, but you won't talk about it, so don't lecture me about avoiding my problems."

Hannah opens her mouth to respond, but no words come out. Because he's right. She is avoiding her problems. She's been lying to him for a week, pretending everything is fine when it's not.

"I'm sorry," she says finally. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Sean runs a hand through his hair. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you. It's just... the dog thing is complicated. I got attacked when I was seven. A neighbor's dog. It was bad. I had to get stitches. And ever since then, I just... I can't be around them. Even thinking about them makes me anxious."

"I'm sorry that happened to you."

"It's fine. It was a long time ago." Sean sits back down, but there's still tension in his shoulders. "I've been working on it with my therapist. Slowly. But it's hard."

"I know." Hannah checks her phone. 5:03 PM. Forty-four minutes. "I shouldn't have pushed."

"It's okay. I know it's weird. Most people love dogs."

"Most people aren't terrified of them."

"Exactly." Sean gives her a small smile. "Thanks for understanding."

Hannah smiles back, but inside, her heart is sinking. Because she's just confirmed what she already knew: Sean's phobia is serious. It's rooted in real trauma. And the idea of him kissing a dog—any dog, let alone her—seems more impossible than ever.

"I should go," Sean says, standing up again. "I have to meet Adam for dinner. But thanks for the talk. Even if it got a little heated."

"Yeah. Thanks." Hannah stands too, but as she does, a wave of dizziness hits her. She grabs the edge of her desk to steady herself.

"Hannah?" Sean's voice is concerned. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just stood up too fast."

But she's not fine. The tingling is starting. That familiar, terrible sensation that means the transformation is coming.

She checks her phone again. 5:06 PM. Forty-one minutes.

That's not right. Sunset isn't until 5:47. She should have more time.

Unless she's wrong. Unless she miscalculated. Unless—

Another wave of dizziness, stronger this time. Hannah's vision blurs at the edges.

"Hannah, you're scaring me." Sean takes a step closer. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just—I need you to leave."

"I'm not leaving when you look like you're about to pass out."

"Sean, please—"

"Let me at least walk you to your car—"

"No!" Hannah's voice is too loud, too desperate. "I need you to go. Now. Please."

Sean stares at her, confusion and hurt evident on his face. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No. You didn't do anything. I just—" Another wave. Stronger. The tingling is spreading up her arms. "Please just go."

"Hannah—"

"GO!"

Sean backs toward the door, his hands raised. "Okay. Okay. I'm going. But call me if you need anything, okay?"

He leaves, and Hannah collapses into her chair, breathing hard. She checks her phone again.

5:09 PM.

The sunset time listed is 5:47 PM.

But her body is telling her something different. The transformation is coming. Now.

Hannah tries to stand, tries to make it to her car, but her legs won't cooperate. She stumbles, catches herself on the desk, and realizes with growing horror that she's not going to make it.

She's going to transform here. In her classroom. Where anyone could walk in.

"No," she whispers. "No, no, no—"

But the curse doesn't care.

The pain hits her like a freight train, and Hannah falls to her knees. She tries to crawl toward the door, to lock it, to do something, but her body is already changing. Her hands are blurring into paws. Her spine is curving. Her vision is shifting.

And then she hears footsteps in the hallway.

"Hannah?" Sean's voice. "I forgot my phone. I think I left it—"

The door opens.

Sean walks in.

And he sees her.

Hannah is on the floor, mid-transformation, her body caught between human and dog. She's still partially herself—her face, her eyes—but her hands are paws now, and fur is sprouting along her arms.

Sean freezes in the doorway, his phone forgotten, his face going pale.

"What—" His voice is barely a whisper. "What's happening?"

Hannah tries to speak, but her vocal cords are changing. What comes out is half-word, half-whimper. "I'm—cursed—"

"What?"

"I kissed you—" The words are getting harder to form. Her jaw is changing shape. "At the party—I'm sorry—"

"Hannah, what are you—"

"I'm cursed!" The words come out in a rush, desperate and terrified. "I kissed you at Marcus's party and I activated a family curse and now I turn into a dog every night at sunset and you're the only person who can break it but you're terrified of dogs and I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I didn't know—"

The transformation completes.

Hannah is now fully a dog, lying on the floor of her classroom, staring up at Sean with desperate, pleading eyes.

Sean is frozen. His face has gone from pale to white. His hands are shaking. He's staring at her—at the dog that used to be Hannah—with an expression of pure horror.

"No," he whispers. "No, this isn't real. This isn't—"

Hannah tries to move toward him, to somehow communicate that she's still herself, but Sean backs away so fast he hits the doorframe.

"Stay away from me." His voice is shaking. "Don't—don't come near me."

Hannah whimpers, trying to convey that she won't hurt him, that she's still Hannah, but all Sean sees is a dog. The thing he's most terrified of. The thing that attacked him when he was seven.

He pulls out his phone with trembling hands.

"I'm calling someone," he says. "Animal control. Or—or the police. Or—"

Hannah's heart sinks. If he calls animal control, they'll take her away. They'll put her in a shelter. Or worse.

She backs away, pressing herself against the wall, trying to make herself as small and non-threatening as possible.

Sean is still staring at her, his phone in his hand, his finger hovering over the screen.

"You're really her," he says finally. "You're really Hannah."

Hannah nods—or tries to. It's hard to nod when you're a dog.

"This is insane." Sean's voice cracks. "This is actually insane."

He looks at his phone. Then at Hannah. Then back at his phone.

And then, slowly, he lowers it.

"I'm not calling anyone," he says quietly. "But I need—I need to think. I need to—"

He backs out of the classroom, his eyes never leaving Hannah.

"I'll come back," he says. "Tomorrow. When you're—when you're you again. And we'll talk. But right now, I need to—I can't—"

He turns and runs.

Hannah hears his footsteps echoing down the hallway, getting fainter and fainter until they disappear entirely.

And then she's alone.

A dog in an empty classroom, with no idea if she's just ruined everything or if there's still a chance to fix this.

She curls up on the floor, rests her head on her paws, and waits for sunrise.

Outside, storm clouds are gathering.