Ryan noticed the change before I did.
It wasn't something obvious, like me pulling away when he touched me or forgetting to answer his texts. It was smaller than that.
It was the way I started checking my phone before I checked his face. The way my thoughts drifted during our conversations like I was thinking about something else.
"You haven't been present lately," he said one evening as we sat on the edge of my bed, his knee pressed against mine.
"I'm right here."
"That's not what I meant."
He studied me the way people do when they think the truth is hiding just beneath the surface.
"Is this about school?"
I hesitated for half a second too long.
His jaw tightened. "Which class?"
"All of them," I said, too quickly.
Ryan didn't push. That almost made it worse.
***
Professor Reed returned our midterm essays the following week.
He moved through the rows with obvious authority, setting papers down without comment. But when he reached my desk, he placed mine face-down.
"Stay after," he said.
Again.
The room emptied faster than the last time. The sound of the door closing behind the last student left me feeling nervous.
I turned my paper over.
B+
It should have made me happy, but it didn't.
"This doesn't feel fair," I said, standing.
His brows lifted slightly. "You're welcome to explain why."
I walked to the front, the paper clenched in my hand
"You marked down my argument on page three. You said it lacked clarity."
"It did," he replied calmly.
"I supported it with three sources."
"You listed them," he said. "You didn't engage with them."
The words stung because they were true.
"You're being harder on me than everyone else."
His gaze brightened. "If anything, I'm being more careful with you."
"Why?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
The silence was deafening and uncomfortable.
"I need you to leave," he said finally.
I didn't move.
"Professor Reed—"
"Mira," he interrupted, "This conversation ends here."
Something about the way he said my name made my chest hurt.
I turned and walked out before I did something I couldn't explain later.
***
Ryan was waiting for me outside. Again.
This time, he didn't smile.
"You always come out of this class looking like you just got hit by a truck," he said.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder. "It's intense."
"So is my patience."
I stopped walking. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I'm not stupid," he said. "I see the way you look at him."
The world stopped moving slightly.
"You're imagining things."
"Am I?" he shot back. "Because from where I'm standing, my girlfriend keeps getting asked to stay after by a professor who can't stop staring at her."
"He doesn't stare at me."
Ryan laughed, humorlessly. "You're defending him now?"
"That's not what I'm doing."
"Then what are you doing, Mira?"
I didn't have an answer that wouldn't sound like a confession.
***
That night, I sat at my desk, my essay spread out in front of me. I reread Professor Reed's comments in the margins. They were precise, thoughtful… Almost gentle.
Push this idea further.
You're capable of more here.
My phone buzzed.
It was the same unknown number.
"I didn't mean to embarrass you today."
I stared at the message.
"You didn't."
A pause.
"You deserved better than a B+."
My heart skipped.
"Are you offering me a better grade?"
"I'm offering you feedback."
I hesitated.
"When?"
Three dots appeared.
"Tomorrow. My office. 4 p.m."
I knew I should say no, but I didn't.
***
His office was calmer than usual when I arrived. The hallway was empty, while the late afternoon sun casted shadows across the floor. He was standing just by the window when I walked in.
"Close the door," he said.
I did.
He gestured to the chair, but I stood still.
"You shouldn't be doing this," I said.
"Neither should you."
We both knew we weren't talking about the essay anymore.
He picked up my paper from his desk. "Sit."
I obeyed.
For the next twenty minutes, we talked about my writing, my arguments, the way I structured my thoughts.
It was almost normal and that somehow made it feel worse.
"You're holding back," he said, tapping the page. "You write like you're afraid of being wrong."
"I am afraid of being wrong."
He looked at me, like really looked at me.
"That's not what you were afraid of that night."
My breath caught.
"That night doesn't belong here," I said.
"It belongs everywhere you go," he replied.
The words settled between us like something alive.
"I can't keep doing this," I said.
"Then stop."
"I don't know how."
He stood, moving around the desk. He didn't come close. He didn't touch me.
But the space between us felt charged.
"Do you know what the hardest part is?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"Knowing exactly where the line is," he said. "And realizing how easy it would be to step over it."
My pulse thundered.
The door handle rattled.
We both froze.
"Mira?" Ryan's voice came, muffled through the wood. "I know you're in there."
Professor Reed took a step back, like the moment had physically pushed him away from me.
I opened the door.
Ryan's eyes flicked from me to Professor Reed.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"Feedback session," Professor Reed said confidently.
Ryan looked at me. "You didn't tell me."
"I didn't think I had to."
His jaw clenched.
"Are we done?" Ryan asked.
Professor Reed met his gaze without flinching. "We are."
I walked out without looking back.
***
The walk back to my dorm felt longer than usual. Ryan didn't speak, and when we reached my door, he stopped.
"You need to tell me the truth," he said. "Right now."
I opened my mouth.
He laughed softly. "That bad, huh?"
"There's nothing happening," I said.
"Then why does it feel like I'm already losing you?"
The question hurt, but I didn't have answers for him. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't.
***
That night, I found a note slipped into my notebook. I didn't know when he had done it.
"Be careful with your words. They tend to become choices.
—R"
I stared at the ink, at the deliberate curve of the letter. I didn't throw it away. I simply folded it and tucked it into my pocket.
***
The next lecture, Professor Reed called on me. For the first time.
"Mira," he said. "What do you think?"
Every eye in the room turned toward me.
Ryan, sitting a few rows back, watched too.
I stood, my heart racing.
"I think," I started, "that sometimes the most important lines aren't the ones we draw for other people. They're the ones we draw for ourselves."
Professor Reed held my gaze.
A flicker of something—approval, understanding, warning, passed through his eyes.
"Sit down," he said.
I did.
My hands were shaking.
***
After class, my phone buzzed.
"You shouldn't have said that."
"I meant it."
There was a pause.
I typed, deleted. Typed again.
His reply came almost immediately.
"I don't know how."
I closed my eyes. Neither did I…