The weekend passes in a blur. I try to work on my research, try to focus on anything else, but my mind keeps circling back to Friday night.
I see you too.
I wish circumstances were different.
Saturday, I spend three hours in the library, reading the same paragraph over and over without absorbing a word. The fluorescent lights give me a headache that builds behind my eyes in a dull, persistent throb. Sunday, Riley drags me to brunch at the student union, but the pancakes taste like sawdust and her concerned questions fade into white noise. I mechanically butter and cut my food, pushing it around my plate without really eating. I sleep badly both nights, tossing in tangled sheets, dreaming of offices and locked doors and voices that say my name like a secret. I wake up sweating, my heart pounding, the dreams dissolving before I can fully remember them.
By Monday morning, I'm a mess of nerves and anticipation.
Riley notices. "You've been weird all weekend."
"Just stressed about classes."
"Bullshit. This is about the professor."
I don't deny it. The dorm room smells like her vanilla body spray and the burnt bagel she tried to make in our contraband toaster, a charred smell that lingers stubbornly in the stale air. Morning light filters through the curtains, weak and gray, barely illuminating the mess of clothes and textbooks scattered across the floor.
She sits up in bed, suddenly serious. Her hair is messed up from sleep, and she's got that concerned expression that means she's about to say something I don't want to hear. "Avery. Whatever you're thinking, don't."
"I'm not thinking anything."
"You're a terrible liar." She crosses her arms. "I know that look. I've seen it before. You're falling for him."
"I'm not..."
"Yes, you are. And it's going to blow up in your face."
Maybe. Probably.
But I can't seem to stop.
The lecture hall feels different when I walk in. Heavier somehow. The air seems thicker, charged with something I can't name. A few students cluster near the windows, and their laughter sounds too loud, almost aggressive in its normalcy. The room still smells faintly of the coffee and cinnamon rolls that someone brought to the previous class, competing with the underlying scent of old carpet and dry-erase markers.
Parker's already at the podium, organizing notes. His movements are mechanical, economical. He doesn't look up when I enter. His shoulders are tense, his movements precise, like he's holding himself together through sheer force of will.
I take my seat. Third row. Our eyes don't meet, though I feel the invisible space between us like a physical thing.
The class fills up. Backpacks hit the floor with dull thuds. Someone's eating something that smells like coffee and cinnamon. The air gets progressively warmer as bodies fill the seats. Liam arrives late, takes his usual spot in the back. I feel his glare like a weight but don't acknowledge it, keeping my eyes forward.
Ten o'clock hits.
Parker begins. "Good morning. Today we're discussing performance anxiety, the psychological cost of constant self-monitoring."
He clicks to a slide. A quote from Goffman appears on the screen.
"When an individual appears before others, he will have many motives for trying to control the impression they form of him."
His voice is steady, professional. Like Friday night didn't happen. Like we didn't stand inches apart, admitting things that can't be taken back. But I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers grip the podium slightly too hard.
"But what happens," he continues, "when that performance becomes so constant, so ingrained, that you can't separate it from who you actually are? When the mask becomes the face?"
He doesn't look at me. Not once. The omission feels deliberate, a studied avoidance.
The lecture is brilliant, as always. He talks about cognitive load, identity fragmentation, the exhaustion of perpetual impression management. His hands move as he speaks, gesturing to emphasize points with the eloquence that usually captivates me. A girl in the front row takes notes furiously, pen scratching across paper in a rhythmic whisper.
But he never calls on me. Never singles me out. Never asks for my perspective the way he usually does.
It feels deliberate. Like distance. Like punishment.
When class ends, I pack up slowly. Hoping. Waiting. My laptop slides into my bag with a soft thud. I fumble with my water bottle, buying time, letting other students file past. The room gradually empties out, leaving only the sound of chairs scraping and the whisper of backpacks being zipped.
But he's already surrounded by students asking questions. He nods patiently, answers thoroughly, but his jaw is tight, his responses clipped.
I leave.
I'm halfway across the quad when I hear it.
"Miss Lane."
I turn. Parker's walking toward me, bag slung over his shoulder. The late October sun catches in his hair, turning the gray streaks almost silver. The wind ruffles his jacket, and he looks tired in a way that makes my chest ache.
My heart jumps.
"Professor."
"Do you have a minute? There's something we need to discuss."
"Of course."
He gestures toward a quieter section of the quad, away from the crowds. Away from the fountain where students congregate, away from the picnic tables where groups spread out their lunches. We walk in silence. I can hear our footsteps on the pathway, the distant sound of someone's music playing, the rustling of leaves in the October breeze.
When we're far enough from other students, he stops. We're near a cluster of oak trees, leaves crunching underfoot, their branches creating dappled shadows across the grass. The smell of autumn is strong here, that distinctive scent of dry leaves and earth.
"Your reflection paper," he says. "I've finished grading them."
"And?"
"Yours was exceptional. A-plus." He pulls a folder from his bag, hands me my paper. His fingers brush mine briefly, and the contact makes my breath catch. Even this small touch feels illicit, dangerous. "But we need to talk about it."
I take it, confused. My name is marked at the top in his precise handwriting. "Is something wrong?"
"No. It's excellent work." He pauses, and I can see him choosing his words carefully. "That's why I need to have this conversation."
"I don't understand."
He looks around, making sure no one's close enough to hear. A group of students walks by in the distance, their voices carrying on the breeze. He waits until they pass before speaking, his voice dropping lower, becoming almost intimate in its privacy.
"Your paper was honest. Almost brutally so. You wrote about rebuilding identity after betrayal, about performance as a survival mechanism." His eyes finally meet mine, and the intensity there makes my skin feel too tight. "You didn't name anyone specifically, but the subtext was clear."
My chest tightens. The paper suddenly feels heavier in my hands. "The assignment was to analyze our online presence. That's what I did."
"You did more than that. You exposed yourself in a way that took real courage." He steps slightly closer. "Most students hide behind theory. You didn't."
"Is that a problem?"
"No. It's what makes you exceptional." His voice drops even lower. "But it's also dangerous."
"Dangerous how?"
"Because it makes you vulnerable. Because anyone reading that paper, including me, can see exactly how much you've been hurt. How much you're struggling to figure out who you are."
"You asked for honesty."
"I did. And you gave it. More than I expected." He runs a hand through his hair, and I notice how tired he looks, like he hasn't slept well either, like he's been wrestling with something all weekend. "That kind of openness, that kind of raw self-examination, it takes a level of self-awareness most people never achieve."
"Then why does it sound like you're warning me?"
"Because I am." His jaw tightens. "Not about the paper. About what comes next."
"What do you mean?"
He glances around again, then back to me. His expression is conflicted, torn. "Can we talk somewhere more private? My office?"
"Now?"
"If you have time."
I should say no. Should keep this in public spaces where lines can't blur. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to refuse. But I nod anyway. "Okay."
We walk back to Dodd Hall in silence. The building is busier now, students moving between classes, their voices echoing in the stairwell. My heart pounds with every step, each one taking me deeper into something I can't control. The hallway seems narrower than usual, the walls pressing in.
His office feels smaller in daylight. More intimate. The afternoon sun streams through the window, illuminating dust motes floating in the air like tiny suspended worlds. The light makes everything feel exposed, vulnerable.
He closes the door, doesn't sit. Just leans against his desk, arms crossed. The desk lamp is off, and the natural light makes the lines on his face more pronounced, revealing the toll this has taken on him.
"I'm going to be direct," he says. "Because I think you deserve honesty."
My pulse quickens. "Okay."
"You're brilliant, Avery. Talented, ambitious, self-aware. You have a real future in this field, and I mean that sincerely."
"Thank you."
"But you're also young. And you're hurting in ways you don't fully understand yet." He pauses, and the weight of what he's about to say hangs in the air. "That combination makes you vulnerable to certain impulses."
"What kind of impulses?"
His eyes hold mine. "The kind that feel like connection but are actually misdirection. The kind that mistake intensity for intimacy."
My stomach drops. The paper falls to my side. "You think I'm projecting."
"I think you're looking for something to anchor yourself to while everything else feels unstable. That's natural. It's human."
"And you think I'm anchoring to you."
"Are you?"
The question hangs between us. I can hear the clock on his wall ticking, the muffled sound of voices from the hallway, the distant hum of the building's ventilation system.
I could deny it. Should deny it.
"Maybe," I whisper.
He nods slowly, like this is what he expected, like he's been bracing himself for this admission. "That's what I thought."
The silence stretches. It feels heavy, suffocating, like the walls have moved closer.
"I need you to understand something," he says finally. "What you're feeling, this pull, this connection you think we have, it's not real."
The words sting more than I expect. Like a physical blow. I actually feel the impact of them, a sharp pain in my chest that radiates outward.
"How do you know?"
"Because I've seen it before." His voice is gentle but firm. "Students fixate on their professors all the time. They mistake intellectual engagement for emotional connection. They confuse admiration with attraction."
"That's not what this is."
"Isn't it?" He steps closer, and I have to resist the urge to step back. "Be honest with yourself. Would you feel this way about me if I wasn't your professor? If I was just some man you met at a coffee shop?"
I want to say yes. But I don't know if that's true, and the uncertainty terrifies me.
"You're brilliant," he continues. "And you're ambitious. That hunger to understand, to be seen, to matter, I recognize it because I had it too at your age. But you can't let that hunger cloud your judgment."
"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself," I say quietly.
His expression shifts. Something flickers across his face. "Maybe I am."
The admission hangs in the air like a confession.
"Ethan," I whisper. "Friday night. You said you see me. You said you wished things were different."
"I do." His voice is rough, strained. "But wishing doesn't change reality."
"What is reality?"
"Reality is that you're eighteen and I'm forty-five. Reality is that I'm your professor and you're my student. Reality is that even if this was real, and I'm not convinced it is, acting on it would destroy both our futures."
"So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying we need to be smart." He steps back, creating distance. The loss of his proximity feels like plummeting. "I'm saying the research assistantship continues, because you've earned it. But the lines need to be clear. Professional only. No more late-night texts. No more conversations that blur boundaries."
"And if I can't do that?"
His jaw works. "Then you need to drop the assistantship. For both our sakes."
The ultimatum feels like a slap.
"You're asking me to choose."
"I'm asking you to be realistic." His voice softens. "Avery, I'm not the answer to whatever you're searching for. I can be your mentor, your professor, someone who believes in your potential. But I can't be more than that. Not without destroying everything."
Tears burn behind my eyes, but I don't let them fall. I focus on a spot on the wall behind him, refusing to blink, using every ounce of willpower I have to maintain composure.
"You're right," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "I'm sorry. I misread things."
"You didn't misread..." He stops himself. "It's not about misreading. It's about what we can and can't control."
"I understand."
"Do you?"
"Yes." I grab my bag, my movements jerky, almost aggressive. "Professional boundaries. Clear lines. I can do that."
He looks like he wants to say something else. His mouth opens, closes. His hands clench and unclench at his sides. But he just nods. "Good."
I head for the door.
"Avery."
I stop but don't turn around. If I turn around, if I look at him again, I'll fall apart.
"Your paper really was exceptional. That part is true."
"Thanks."
I walk out before my voice can break, each step feeling mechanical, like I'm operating my body from a distance.
The quad is sunny and bright, students laughing and studying on the grass. Someone's playing frisbee, the disc sailing through the air in bright yellow arcs. A group rehearses for some performance, their voices carrying across the open space in harmonies and laughter. Everything looks normal, continues on normally, like the world hasn't just shifted.
But I feel like I've been gutted.
I find a bench far from everyone and sit, staring at nothing. My hands are shaking. The sun feels too warm on my face. I can feel hot tears starting to escape despite my efforts to hold them back.
My phone buzzes.
Zoey: lunch?
Me: yeah. meet you at the dining hall in 10
But I don't move yet.
I pull out my phone, open Instagram. Take a photo of the empty space in front of me. Just grass and scattered leaves and distant figures moving like shadows. The composition is almost deliberately melancholic, the light golden and sad.
Caption: some conversations change everything.
I post it before I can second-guess, before I can realize how much this reveals.
The likes roll in immediately. Comments about cryptic posts, about being mysterious. My followers have no idea.
No idea that the professor just warned me off while simultaneously admitting he feels it too.
No idea that I'm sitting here with my hands shaking, trying to decide if I'm going to be smart and walk away, or reckless and stay.
No idea that "careful" is the last thing I want to be.
I whisper to myself: "Careful, Avery."
But even as I say it, I know it's a lie.
Because if Friday night taught me anything, it's that careful left the building a long time ago.
And I'm not sure I want it back.