The transfer went through on Wednesday.
A moment passed. The screen blinked after three taps, then a pen stroke from Dean Morrison - his eyes heavy, showing what might've been sorrow mixed with disapproval - and just like air leaving a room, my name vanished from Daniel's roster.
Now I sat in Professor Carter's class. Not the detective - just life being strange, handing me a psych teacher who shared a name with someone else entirely. She turned sixty-three this year. Teaching long before my parents met. Her voice was flat, so dull it drained energy from caffeine itself.
Safe, that much was true. Dull, without question. Nothing like Daniel at all.
That stood out clearly. Just how it should be. Funny thing - no one smiled when I walked into the room late. Back there, hidden behind backpacks and half-open laptops, I watched the professor speak without really speaking.
