The following week arrived slower than usual. Sierra found herself counting the days without meaning to—each morning starting with the same quiet thought: Monday. The group meets Monday.
When it finally came, she dressed more carefully than usual, not to impress but to feel composed. The mirror reflected someone trying not to overthink, and failing.
The seminar room felt warmer this time, sunlight spilling across the floor. She arrived just as the clock struck two. Only one other student was there. Professor Blackwood stood by the board, sleeves rolled slightly, marking something with chalk. His handwriting was sharp, deliberate—like everything else about him.
"Afternoon," he greeted softly when she entered, his tone calm but faintly lighter than before.
"Good afternoon, Professor," Sierra replied, setting her things down.
The discussion began almost immediately, a blend of ideas and quiet exchanges. But every time he spoke, Sierra found herself listening too closely—not just to his words but to the pauses between them.
When it came time for her turn, she presented her short summary on "Perspective and Partial Truth." She tried to sound steady, though her palms were damp.
"Sometimes," she said, glancing at her notes, "we record what we want to see. The truth becomes filtered through what we feel. And maybe that's not always wrong—it just means our emotions shape our vision."
There was a silence afterward. Professor Blackwood's gaze lingered, thoughtful.
"That's an honest observation," he said after a moment. "And… quite brave, actually."
Sierra blinked. "Brave?"
He nodded. "Most people hide behind facts. Few admit emotion can be a lens, too."
Something in his voice made her throat tighten. She smiled faintly, unsure what to say. "I guess feelings make us human, right?"
His lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Yes. And sometimes they make things complicated."
For a heartbeat, it felt like the world narrowed to just the two of them. Then a student coughed, and the spell broke.
The session continued. Notes, theories, short debates—everything normal. But when the others left, Sierra stayed behind, once again pretending to organize her papers.
Professor Blackwood was erasing the board when she finally said, "Professor… do you ever think emotions can ruin objectivity?"
He paused, the eraser still in his hand. "Yes," he said quietly. "But they also make understanding possible. Without empathy, truth becomes mechanical."
Sierra tilted her head. "So we need both?"
His eyes met hers—steady, unreadable. "We do. Balance is what keeps us from losing ourselves."
Silence stretched between them, filled with all the things neither dared to name.
She nodded slowly. "Thank you," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
He looked away first, placing the eraser down with care. "You're welcome, Sierra."
She packed up and turned to go, but before she reached the door, his voice stopped her.
"Your reflections," he said, "they're insightful. Don't hold back when you write. Let them sound like you."
She smiled, the warmth in his tone following her long after she left the room.
Outside, the late afternoon breeze carried the scent of rain. She glanced up at the gray clouds, heart oddly light and heavy all at once.
Inside the seminar room, Professor Blackwood sat at his desk, staring at her empty chair. For the first time in a long while, he found himself wondering—when had admiration begun to feel this personal?
He closed his notebook slowly, the faintest sigh escaping his lips.
"Emotions complicate everything," he murmured.
And yet, when he imagined next week's meeting, he realized he didn't mind the complication at all.