The week after that Monday conversation feels like walking through fog.
I go to my other classes, take notes, participate when called on. Post my usual content: study sessions, coffee cups, campus aesthetic shots. The followers eat it up. Comments about how mature I look, how inspiring, how they wish they had their lives together like me.
If only they knew.
The days blend together in a gray monotony. I eat meals without tasting them. Riley talks at me during dinner, and I nod in the right places, but I couldn't tell you what she said five minutes later. At night, I lie awake staring at my phone, scrolling through our text history, looking for something I might have missed.
Wednesday's lecture is torture. Ethan, Professor Parker, delivers a brilliant discussion on digital authenticity. He's magnetic as always, commanding the room with ease. His voice fills the lecture hall, confident and clear, but it feels like he's speaking a language I can no longer understand.
But he doesn't look at me. Not once.
Not when he asks questions. Not when I raise my hand to answer. Not when class ends and students swarm the podium.
I pack up slowly, hoping. Waiting. My hands fumble with my laptop, taking longer than necessary to zip my bag.
He keeps his eyes on his laptop, fielding questions with patient professionalism. The fluorescent lights make everyone look washed out, tired.
I leave.
Thursday's the same. Friday too. A whole week of being invisible to the one person who actually sees me. Each lecture feels like being erased, slowly, methodically. I start sitting further back, then wonder if that makes it worse.
Rachel notices during our research meeting Friday night.
"You're quiet today," she says, looking up from her laptop. The office feels stuffy, overheated. Someone brought takeout, and the smell of Chinese food lingers in the air. "Usually you have opinions about everything."
"Just tired," I say.
Marcus glances between us. "Midterms are brutal this year."
"It's week two," Tara points out, twirling a strand of pink hair around her finger. "We don't have midterms yet."
"Exactly. Already feeling the pressure."
Parker, because that's what he is in these meetings, formal and distant, barely acknowledges me. He gives feedback on my interview questions, professional and thorough, but the warmth from that first meeting is gone. His voice is clipped, efficient. He doesn't lean in when he talks. Doesn't let his gaze linger.
When it's over, I linger like always.
He doesn't ask me to stay.
"Good work this week," he says, packing up. "See you all Monday."
The dismissal is clear.
I walk back to my dorm in the dark, hands shoved in my pockets, trying not to feel like I've lost something I never actually had. The October night is cold enough that my breath comes out in visible puffs. Campus is alive with Friday night energy, people heading to parties, music thumping from dorm windows, but I feel separate from all of it.
Saturday morning, Riley drags me to breakfast.
"You've been moping all week," she says, stabbing her eggs with unnecessary force. The dining hall is loud, clattering with dishes and competing conversations. Someone dropped a tray near the back, and the crash makes everyone turn. "Talk."
"I'm not moping."
"You're absolutely moping. Is it the professor?"
I don't answer. I push scrambled eggs around my plate, building little mountains that collapse.
"Avery." She leans forward. "What happened?"
"Nothing. That's the problem."
"Explain."
So I do. Not everything. Not the parts about revenge or Liam or the plan that's slowly becoming something else entirely. Just the basics: how we had a moment, how he warned me off, how now he won't even look at me.
"Good," Riley says when I finish.
"Good?"
"He's doing the right thing. Creating distance. Being professional."
"I know that."
"Then why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?"
Because I don't want distance. Because professional is the last thing I want.
Because somewhere between the plan and the execution, I started actually caring.
"I'm fine," I say. "Just adjusting."
She doesn't look convinced, but she lets it go. She reaches across and steals a piece of my toast, and the gesture is so normal, so Riley, that I almost smile.
Sunday, I spend all day in the library. Real work this time, not just an excuse to bump into him. The library is nearly empty, just a few dedicated students scattered among the stacks. The quiet feels oppressive, broken only by the occasional cough or rustle of pages.
My viral moment analysis is due Tuesday. I chose a TikTok: girl crying about her breakup, ten million views. The comments are what interest me. Thousands of strangers offering advice, sharing their own stories.
Parasocial intimacy at its peak.
Exactly what Ethan's research is about.
I'm typing notes when my phone buzzes. The sound is too loud in the silence, and someone glares at me from two tables over.
Email from: [email protected]
My heart stops.
I open it.
Miss Lane,
Your interview questions show strong analytical skills. I'd like to discuss the research project trajectory over coffee this week—get your thoughts on where we should focus our energy.
Let me know your availability.
Best,Professor Parker
I read it three times.
He's reaching out.
After a week of silence.
After warning me about boundaries.
I should wait. Play it cool. Make him wonder.
Instead, I type back immediately:
Professor Parker,
I'm free Tuesday after class or Thursday morning.
Thanks,Avery Lane
Send before I can overthink.
Stare at my screen. My hands are trembling.
Five minutes pass. Ten.
Then:
Tuesday after class works. The Grind, 11 AM.
Short. Professional.
But he responded in ten minutes on a Sunday afternoon.
That means something.
I type: See you then.
Close email.
Try not to smile.
Fail completely.
Monday is a blur. Three classes, all of them background noise to the countdown in my head. I take notes without seeing what I'm writing. In economics, the professor calls on me and I have to ask him to repeat the question twice.
Twenty-four hours until coffee with Ethan.
That night, I try on four different outfits before settling on black jeans and a cream sweater. Casual but polished. Like I didn't spend an hour deciding. Riley watches from her bed, amused but saying nothing.
I barely sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I imagine different versions of tomorrow. What he'll say. What I'll say. How we'll sit. Whether he'll look at me the way he did that Friday night in his office.
Tuesday morning, I'm awake before my alarm. Staring at the ceiling. Running through conversation scenarios in my head. The room is still dark, Riley snoring softly across from me.
What will he say? What should I say? How do I act like this is just academic when we both know it's not?
His lecture that morning is about media manipulation. How influencers construct reality. How audiences willingly suspend disbelief because the performance meets their emotional needs. He paces as he talks, gesturing with his hands, and I notice the way his wedding ring catches the light.
Wait. Wedding ring?
I look closer. No ring. Just the shadow of movement making me see things that aren't there.
I take notes, answer when called on, act normal.
But my heart is hammering the entire time.
Class ends at 10:30.
"Assignment due Thursday," he says as students pack up. "No extensions."
I gather my things slowly.
He organizes his papers, doesn't look up.
I approach the podium.
"Professor Parker?"
He looks up. Expression neutral. "Miss Lane."
"Just confirming. Eleven at The Grind?"
"Yes."
Professional. Distant.
But our eyes meet for half a second, and something flickers there.
"See you then," I say.
The Grind is a small café two blocks from campus. Brick walls, Edison bulbs, always packed with students on laptops. The air smells like espresso and fresh pastries. Indie music plays low in the background, almost drowned out by the hiss of the espresso machine and the murmur of conversations.
I arrive at 10:50. Order a latte. The barista knows me, gives me a knowing smile. Grab a table by the window where the natural light is best.
Pull out my phone, scroll Instagram mindlessly.
Post a story: coffee cup, natural light, the usual aesthetic.
Caption: study break ☕
The likes roll in immediately.
If only they knew.
10:58. The door opens, bringing a gust of cold air that makes everyone near the entrance look up.
Ethan walks in.
He's in jeans and a navy sweater, no blazer. Casual. Real. Not Professor Parker but just Ethan. His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered. He scans the room, and when his eyes find mine, something in my chest tightens.
He spots me, walks over.
"Miss Lane."
"Professor Parker."
"Just Ethan here," he says. "Off campus."
It's deliberate. Breaking the formality.
"Ethan," I say, testing the name. It feels different in public, more dangerous somehow.
He almost smiles. "Coffee?"
"I'm good."
He orders a black coffee, returns, sits across from me. The chair scrapes against the floor. He wraps his hands around the cup like he's trying to warm them.
For a moment, we just look at each other.
Not professor and student.
Just two people in a café.
"So," he says finally. "The research project."
"Tell me about it."
He explains: parasocial relationships, how influencers create the illusion of intimacy, how followers form real emotional attachments to people they've never met. His voice is quiet, meant only for me, and I have to lean in to hear him over the ambient noise.
"You'd be analyzing your own content," he says. "Comments, DMs, the language your followers use. How they see you versus who you actually are."
"That sounds invasive."
"It is. But valuable. Most people never reflect on the gap between their persona and their reality."
"And you want me to."
"I think you're capable of it. Your reflection paper proved that."
"The A-plus one?"
"Because you earned it."
We sip our coffee. The silence is comfortable. Through the window, I watch students pass by, bundled in jackets, laughing.
"Can I ask you something?" he says quietly. "Off the record."
"Sure."
"Why do you do it? The influencer thing. Really."
I consider lying. Giving him the PR answer.
But something about the way he's looking at me makes me want to be honest.
"It started as fun," I say. "Creative outlet. Then it became income. Security. But now?" I pause. "Now it's armor."
"Armor against what?"
"Being underestimated. Being dismissed. Being the girl who got her heart broken and fell apart."
His expression softens. Something vulnerable crosses his face.
"The ex," he says.
"Among others."
"You think controlling your narrative gives you power."
"Doesn't it?"
"To a point. But it's exhausting. Always performing. Never just being."
"Maybe I forgot how to just be."
The words slip out before I can stop them.
He looks at me for a long moment. His coffee sits forgotten, going cold.
"Maybe that's worth relearning," he says quietly.
The moment stretches between us. Heavy. Charged.
"This project," I say, breaking it. "When would we start?"
"Next week. Weekly meetings. We'll review your content together, discuss patterns, identify themes."
"Just us?"
"There are two other research assistants involved in data analysis. But you'd work with me directly on the qualitative aspects."
"So we'd be meeting one-on-one."
"Yes."
"Is that..." I hesitate. "Is that wise?"
He takes a long sip of coffee. "Probably not."
"But you're asking anyway."
"I'm asking because the research is legitimate. Because you're the right person for it. Because..." He stops himself.
"Because?"
"Because I think you need this as much as I do."
The admission hangs in the air.
"Need what?" I whisper.
"To understand the difference between what's real and what's performed." His eyes meet mine. "For both of us."
My heart is pounding.
"Okay," I say. "I'm in."
"Good." He finishes his coffee, stands. The chair scrapes again. "I'll send you the details."
We're both standing now. Too close for a professor and student. I can smell his cologne again, that woodsy scent I'm starting to associate with bad decisions.
Neither of us steps back.
"See you Thursday," he says. "Miss Lane."
"Avery," I correct. "Off campus, remember?"
His jaw tightens. "Avery."
The way he says my name sends a shiver through me.
He leaves first. I watch him go, watch the door close behind him.
I wait a few minutes, then follow.
Outside, the air is crisp and cold. I pull out my phone, text Zoey: Coffee happened. He wants to work with me one-on-one.
Her response is immediate: AVERY. THIS IS DANGEROUS.
Me: I know
Zoey: DO YOU???
I don't answer.
Instead, I take a photo of the café from outside. The brick wall, the warm glow from the windows.
Post it to my story.
Caption: good conversations change everything
The likes pour in.
But all I can think about is the way he looked at me when he said I need this as much as I do.
Like maybe this stopped being about revenge a long time ago.
And started being about something infinitely more dangerous.