RULES, LINES, AND THINGS UNNAMEDPART 1
She did not forget.
Not the night.Not the voice.Not the way the professor's eyes had flickered—just once—before turning cold.
For days after that first lecture, she walked around campus like a ghost wearing her own face.
She attended classes.She smiled when spoken to.She laughed at jokes that barely reached her ears.
But inside, everything was noise.
THIS WAS A MISTAKE THAT CANNOT BE REPEATED.
The words echoed with brutal clarity.
She replayed them while brushing her teeth.While waiting in line at the cafeteria.While lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, her chest aching with something that had no name yet.
Regret, maybe.
Or longing.
Or the quiet humiliation of being dismissed so cleanly.
In class, the professor was untouchable.
Efficient.Brilliant.Completely unreachable.
She lectured without hesitation, her voice calm and precise, her movements minimal and controlled. She never lingered on a student. Never smiled unnecessarily. Never invited closeness.
And she never—never—looked at her.
Not directly.
But the girl felt it anyway.
The awareness.
Like standing near a live wire.
She tried to convince herself it was all in her head.
Of course she's distant, she reasoned. She's a professor. That's what they're supposed to be like.
But it was different.
Too deliberate.
Too careful.
As if distance itself were a rule being enforced.
Her boyfriend noticed first.
"You've been quiet," he said one evening, watching her over the rim of his glass.
"I'm just tired," she replied automatically.
It wasn't a lie.
Just not the whole truth.
He reached for her hand. She let him. The contact felt… neutral.
Safe, in a dull, lifeless way.
She hated herself a little for noticing the difference.
The first crack came during office hours.
She hadn't planned to go.
She told herself she was only there because she genuinely didn't understand the assignment.
She told herself a lot of things.
The professor's office was immaculate.
Minimalist. Clean. Impersonal.
She stood just inside the doorway, heart pounding loud enough that she was certain it could be heard.
"Yes?" the professor said, not looking up from her desk.
The girl cleared her throat.
"I—I had a question about the reading."
The professor froze.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then she looked up.
Their eyes met.
And something unspoken passed between them—recognition sharpened by restraint.
"Sit," the professor said, gesturing to the chair across from her.
Professional. Controlled.
She sat.
The air felt too thick.
Too quiet.
They spoke only of the text. Of theory. Of interpretation.
But every word carried weight.
Every pause felt dangerous.
When the girl finally stood to leave, the professor spoke again.
Low. Firm.
"You should avoid putting yourself in situations that could be misunderstood."
The girl turned back.
"Like asking questions?"
The professor's jaw tightened.
"I'm serious," she said. "You need to be."
For the first time, irritation flared through the girl's confusion.
"I didn't plan any of this," she said quietly. "Neither did you."
Silence.
Then—
"I know," the professor replied.
And somehow, that hurt more.
That night, sleep refused to come.
She lay awake, replaying the look on the professor's face in the office.
Not disgust.
Not regret.
Something closer to fear.
FEAR OF WANTING.
The realization settled heavily in her chest.
And once she recognized it, she couldn't unsee it.
The professor wasn't indifferent.
She was resisting.