Thursday afternoon, I'm working at the campus coffee shop.
It's packed. Students everywhere with laptops and textbooks, that productive chaos that makes good background noise. The air is thick with the smell of roasted coffee and cinnamon from someone's pastry. Every table is claimed, backpacks piled on chairs, chargers snaking across the floor to outlets. Someone's playing lo-fi beats loud enough to hear through their headphones. The late afternoon sun streams through the tall windows, casting long rectangles of light across the worn wooden tables.
The coffee shop, called The Grind, is tucked into the basement of the Student Center. It's become my sanctuary over the past three semesters. The brick walls are covered with flyers for student organizations, concert posters, and handwritten quotes. There's a mural on the back wall that changes every semester. This one features a phoenix rising through books and paintbrushes. The baristas, a rotating cast of work-study students, know my order by heart: oat milk latte, extra shot, cinnamon on top.
I'm analyzing my viral moment for Ethan's class. A TikTok that blew up last month: girl crying about her breakup, ten million views. I've watched it so many times I can mouth along with her words.
The comments are what fascinate me. Thousands of strangers offering advice, sharing their own stories. Parasocial intimacy at its peak.
Exactly what his research is about.
I'm deep in my notes when someone sits across from me. The chair scrapes against the floor, and I catch a familiar scent. Woodsy cologne and coffee.
I look up.
Ethan.
My heart does that stupid flip.
"This seat taken?" he asks. He's in a gray henley today, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, looking more like a graduate student than a professor. There's a silver watch on his left wrist that I've never noticed before, or maybe I have and I've just been pretending not to.
"Apparently it is now."
He smiles, sets down his coffee. The cup is from here, not the faculty lounge. Black coffee, no sugar. "Working on something?"
"Your assignment. The viral moment analysis."
"Which moment did you choose?"
I turn my laptop so he can see. The TikTok is paused on the girl's tear-streaked face, mascara running, eyes red and swollen.
He watches a few seconds, leaning in close enough that I can see the faint lines around his eyes. The smell of his cologne intensifies, and I have to force myself to focus on the screen instead of the proximity of him. "The breakup girl. Interesting choice."
"You've seen it?"
"I've seen the discourse around it. People arguing whether she's genuine or performing grief for views."
"What do you think?"
"I think it doesn't matter. The emotion is real to her audience. That's what counts."
I nod. "That's kind of what I'm arguing. That authenticity is less about truth and more about resonance."
"Smart." He leans back, and the chair creaks under his weight. "Though I'd push you to complicate that. If authenticity is just resonance, then manipulation becomes indistinguishable from honesty."
"Maybe it is indistinguishable. Maybe that's the point."
His eyebrow lifts. "Careful. That's a cynical view of human connection."
"Or a realistic one."
"There's a difference between realism and nihilism."
"Is there though?"
He laughs. Actually laughs. The sound is low and genuine, and it makes heads turn at nearby tables. A couple of freshman girls in the corner actually pause their conversation to look over, then look at each other with that knowing expression. I pretend not to notice. "You're going to be trouble in my class, aren't you?"
"I thought you liked students who challenge you."
"I do. Doesn't make them less dangerous."
The word hangs between us. Dangerous.
Like intoxicating. Words that mean more than they should.
"So what brings you to the student coffee shop?" I ask. "Don't professors have a fancy lounge?"
"We do. The coffee's terrible and my colleagues never stop talking about departmental politics."
"And you prefer undergraduate chaos?"
"I prefer undergraduate honesty. You're all too busy stressing about assignments to pretend you have it together."
"That's generous. Some of us are just disasters."
"Present company excluded."
I gesture to my laptop. Three half-finished assignments open, empty coffee cup with lipstick stains on the rim, hair in a messy bun that's threatening to collapse. "Do I look like I have it together?"
"Yes, actually. You look like someone who thrives under pressure."
The observation is too accurate. Too seeing.
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation. Though I suppose it could be both."
A comfortable silence settles. Around us, students type frantically, keys clicking in staccato rhythm. Someone's phone rings with an obnoxious ringtone. The espresso machine hisses and gurgles. A group near the window erupts in laughter. The barista calls out orders in a monotone voice. Someone drops a ceramic mug and it shatters on the tile floor, drawing groans and a quick apology from the student who knocked it over.
Normal college chaos.
But sitting here with him feels anything but normal.
"Can I ask you something?" he says.
"Sure."
"The revenge narrative. In your reflection paper. You didn't name names, but someone hurt you badly."
My chest tightens. "Is this for research?"
"No. Just curiosity."
"About?"
"About whether you're actually moving forward or just performing forward."
The question cuts deep. Like a scalpel finding exactly where the wound is.
I could deflect. Give him the polished answer.
Instead: "I don't know. Some days I feel fine. Strong. Other days I wake up angry all over again."
"That's normal."
"Is it?"
"Healing isn't linear. It's messy. Good days and bad days. The trajectory matters, not individual moments."
"Spoken like someone who's been through it."
"Everyone's been through it. Heartbreak is universal."
"Even you?"
He pauses. Takes a sip. The coffee must be cold by now, but he doesn't seem to notice. "Especially me."
I want to ask who hurt him. Who he was before he became the untouchable professor everyone gossips about. I want to know if he thinks about that person when the coffee shop is quiet, when he's alone in his office. I open my mouth to ask.
But before I can, he shifts gears.
"Your analysis," he says, gesturing to my laptop. "You mentioned resonance. Dig into that. Why does this particular performance resonate? What need is it meeting?"
I pull my laptop back, start typing as he talks. My fingers fly across the keys, trying to keep up with the thoughts he's sparking.
He's in professor mode now. Asking questions. Pushing my thinking.
But it doesn't feel like a lecture. It feels like equals. Like two people examining something fascinating together.
"You should argue that viral moments work because they give audiences permission to feel," he says. "She's crying about her breakup. They're crying about theirs. Collective catharsis disguised as entertainment."
"That's good. Can I quote you?"
"Make it your own. I'm just helping you develop it."
We work like that for twenty minutes. Him asking questions, me refining arguments. Back and forth until the thesis is sharp. The coffee shop noise fades into background static. I'm dimly aware of people leaving, new people arriving, but I'm locked into this conversation, this flow of ideas.
When we finish, I have three pages of notes. My hand aches from writing so fast.
"This is going to be a good paper," he says.
"Thanks to you."
"No. Thanks to you. I'm just asking questions. You're the one with insights."
I save the document. Close my laptop. The click sounds final. "Can I ask you something now?"
"Fair's fair."
"Why did you really invite me to work on your research project?"
He considers. Takes another sip of his definitely cold coffee. "Because you're sharp. Because you understand the subject from the inside. Because you'll challenge my assumptions."
"That's the professional answer."
"It's the true answer."
"Is it the whole truth?"
His expression shifts. Something vulnerable crosses his face, there and gone in an instant.
"No," he admits. "It's not."
My pulse quickens. I can feel it in my throat, behind my ears. "Then what's the rest?"
He looks at me for a long moment. Deciding how much to say. The sunlight has shifted, and now it's hitting his face directly, making his eyes look almost translucent. They're hazel in this light, with flecks of gold I've never quite noticed before.
"You remind me of someone I once knew," he says quietly.
"Who?"
"Someone who saw through everything. Who didn't accept surface answers. Who asked questions no one else thought to ask."
"What happened to them?"
"They changed my life." He pauses, and his jaw tightens. "And then they left."
The weight settles over the table. Heavy. Suffocating.
I want to ask more. Want to know who this person was. Why they left. Whether he's still in love with them. Whether he thinks about them when he looks at me. The questions pile up in my throat, demanding to be asked.
But his face says the conversation is over. There's a wall there now, firmly in place. It's the same wall he puts up in class sometimes, when a question gets too personal. When things threaten to veer into territory that matters.
He stands. Picks up his cup. The chair scrapes again, too loud, and I notice his fingers tighten on the cup handle.
"Finish the paper," he says. "I'm looking forward to reading it."
"Ethan..."
"I'll see you in class, Avery."
He walks away before I can respond. I watch him go, watch him navigate through the crowded tables with that same careful distance he maintains with everyone. His hand brushes past someone's backpack. He doesn't touch it. He doesn't touch anything except the door when he exits. The glass swings shut behind him with a soft pneumatic hiss.
Leaves me with my laptop and a thousand questions.
I stare at the screen. Our notes. The cursor blinking expectantly.
You remind me of someone I once knew.
Someone who changed his life.
Someone who left.
I pull out my phone. Open notes. Type:
He's been hurt before. Badly. That's why he keeps distance. That's why he warned me about ambition and intoxication. He's not just protecting me. He's protecting himself.
I stare at the words. Read them again.
I delete it. Too revealing. Too close to the truth I'm not ready to face.
Instead, I open Instagram. Photo of my laptop and coffee. The light is perfect now, golden hour streaming through the windows. The brick wall with its mural makes an artful background. The composition is thoughtful, intentional.
Caption: sometimes the best lessons happen outside the classroom
Post.
Likes roll in immediately. Comments about study goals, about aesthetic, about how put-together I look.
But I barely notice.
All I can think about is the look on his face when he said someone changed his life.
And the terrifying realization that I want to be that someone again.
Not to replace whoever came before.
But to be the person who makes him believe in it again.
I pack up my things slowly. The coffee shop is starting to empty as people head to dinner. The barista begins wiping down the espresso machine, the evening staff trickling in to take over from the day shift. Riley texts asking where I am, and I tell her I'll be back soon.
But I sit there a few minutes longer, in the chair Ethan just vacated, and let myself imagine what it would feel like to be the one he doesn't want to let go.