Russell walked to his seat and sat down, greeting the white-tea-scented girl beside him with the ease of long habit.
A moment later, he became aware of it — the whispering going on all around him.
Listening B always seemed unusually sharp at times like this.
"That's him, right? The one from that piece in Phoenix..."
"Yeah, yeah, Russell Watson, Charlotte Holmes's assistant."
"I read the whole article. Guess what I noticed?"
"What?"
"The part about him and Miss Morstan — it was written pretty, well, you know what I mean."
"Shh, don't say it, do you want to live?"
Russell: "..."
He glanced instinctively at Mary.
The girl had her head bowed over the poetry collection in her hands, her expression focused, as if she hadn't heard any of the whispering at all.
Only the faint curl at the corner of her mouth seemed to betray how she actually felt in that moment.
Probably just his imagination.
Russell looked away and closed his eyes to rest, using the time before the Professor arrived.
But with his sight shut off, his hearing sharpened further still.
He caught several girls in the row ahead, huddled together, murmuring.
"Look at this — 'Miss Holmes likes staying up late, drinking strong coffee, and has a habit of never going to bed on time. Student Watson prepares breakfast for Miss Holmes; their habits complement each other.'"
"Complement each other..." another girl repeated the phrase meaningfully.
"And here — 'Student Watson said Miss Holmes claims she doesn't need anything, but actually keeps everything in mind. She says leave her alone, but if you actually do, she'll stay up till dawn.'"
"The way that's phrased—"
"Don't you think that description sounds a lot like—"
"Like what?"
"You know... that kind of really intimate relationship."
The girls exchanged a look, one that practically screamed you know what I mean.
"But what about Miss Morstan?" one girl said quietly.
"Didn't the paper also say she called Student Watson a 'very good friend'?"
"Then let me ask you — between 'friend' and 'trouble,' which relationship sounds closer?
Let me ask you this: would you rather your crush call you 'just a friend,' or look at you with helpless, doting exasperation and call you 'trouble'?"
"Ah..."
"Think about it yourself. When Miss Morstan called him a 'very good friend,' the words she used were 'reliable,' 'like a warm fire in a hearth on a winter's day.'
But when Student Watson talked about Miss Holmes, he used the word 'trouble.'
And listen to the tone he used to describe her — that exasperation laced with a smile..."
She paused, then lowered her voice further:
"That's not complaining at all. That's the tone only people who are truly close use with each other."
"How do you know so much about this?"
"I have a frie—"
"Say no more, sister, I get it."
The girls around them all fell silent.
Then, as if by unspoken agreement, their eyes drifted toward the silver-haired girl in the back row, still flipping through her book — and just as quickly, snapped away again.
"So what do you all think—" the curly-haired girl lowered her voice.
"What exactly is the relationship between Miss Morstan and Student Watson?"
"Didn't the paper say it — 'very good friends.'"
"You believe that?"
"No."
"Well, there you go."
A few more of them traded glances.
"I think..." the short-haired girl chose her words carefully.
"There's no way Miss Morstan sees Student Watson as just a friend."
"Tell us something we don't already know, sister."
"But what about Student Watson? Didn't he say Miss Morstan is a 'very good friend'?"
"You believe that one too?" the curly-haired girl scoffed.
"Now that one I actually do believe... otherwise how do you explain the whole Charlotte Holmes thing?"
The girl with glasses stopped mid-sentence.
Because she'd just seen the silver-haired girl in the back row — who, at some point, had lifted her head and was now watching them, smiling.
The smile was gentle, perfectly composed, even carrying a hint of friendly warning.
—You're talking a bit too loud. I heard all of that.
The girls fell silent instantly, their faces flushing red. They all ducked their heads, pretending to read, too guilty to make another sound.
Mary looked away, then turned her head to glance at the person beside her, still resting with his eyes closed.
In her mind, the conversation she'd been overhearing this whole time kept replaying.
The subject, as always, boiled down to three people — Russell, Charlotte, and herself.
But compared to how much attention Russell and Charlotte's story got, she seemed to be... at something of a disadvantage.
It was supposedly a story about three people, yet she somehow never seemed to have a name in it.
It was supposedly a story about three people, yet everyone's attention always circled back to those other two.
What people cared about, still and always, was that unresolvable, undefinable relationship between Charlotte Holmes and her assistant.
As for the Morstan family's daughter — well, she was just a bit of fun on the side.
It seemed that, somewhere in everyone's subconscious, Mary had never belonged to the same world as Russell and Charlotte to begin with.
Between her and Russell, there seemed to always stand a Charlotte Holmes, permanent and unmoving.
No matter how close she got, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how she positioned herself at his side — in everyone else's eyes, she would always remain just a 'very good friend.'
And that other woman, who hadn't even shown her face, could occupy everyone's imagination effortlessly with a single word: 'trouble.'
The whispering around her went on.
Even though they'd lowered their voices, even though they no longer dared look this way.
A few scattered words still slipped through, like fish through a net, and found their way into her ears.
Mary drew a light breath.
Very light.
But after that breath went in, something in her chest felt a little more tight.
She thought of yesterday afternoon, in that empty classroom.
The sunlight had been just right, the breeze gentle, and she had stood so close to him — close enough to see her own reflection in his eyes.
She thought of the moment she'd hugged him, his hair brushing her cheek, his breath right at her ear.
She thought of the last thing he'd said: "You smell really nice today."
In that instant, she'd felt like she'd won.
But now—
Had she won?
Had she really won?
Why did it feel like she'd popped the champagne at halftime?
This isn't how romance novels are supposed to go! I refuse to accept this!
By rights, shouldn't it be her turn now to get Russell's special scene?
At the thought, Mary couldn't help but turn her head to steal a glance at Russell, still resting beside her with his eyes closed.
Then she quickly looked away again, letting her eyes fall back to the poetry book in her hands.
It was a collection of Tagore's poems.
'You quietly dwell in my heart, as the full moon dwells in the night sky.'
Seeing this, the girl frowned, and turned the page as if trying to escape something.
'The furthest distance in the world is not the distance between life and death, but that I stand before you, and you do not know I love you.'
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