I tried to follow his rules.
I really did.
But the next few days felt like walking on a line so thin it barely existed. Every time I stepped into his classroom, I could feel his gaze flicker toward me—quick, restrained, and full of everything he wouldn't say out loud.
He didn't smile at me anymore.
He didn't linger.
He didn't let his eyes stay on mine for more than a second.
And that was how I knew he was trying too hard.
But the harder he tried to distance himself, the more obvious it became that it was affecting him too.
On Thursday, after class, he dismissed the students quickly, avoiding my eyes like he was afraid of something unraveling. I packed my things slowly on purpose, waiting until the room was almost empty.
Just as I reached the door, he spoke.
"Stay for a moment."
It wasn't loud, but it stopped me immediately.
I turned back. He was gathering his papers, but his hands were moving too quickly, too sharply, as if he was pretending to be busy.
When the last student finally slipped out, the room felt too quiet.
He didn't look up when he said, "How are you?"
I blinked. "You're asking me that now?"
His jaw tightened. "I've noticed you've been… quieter."
"You mean avoiding you?" I asked.
That made him look up.
Our eyes met. And there it was again—that tension, that unspoken pull neither of us could deny.
"That wasn't what I meant," he said. "I just want to make sure you're okay."
"You're the one avoiding me."
He flinched, just barely. "I'm trying to follow the rules we agreed on."
"You made those rules."
"To protect you," he said softly.
"Or to protect yourself?"
The silence that followed was louder than anything we'd said.
He set his papers down slowly. "You think this is easy for me?"
"Isn't it? You drew the line. You told me to step back."
"I told you it was wrong, not easy," he said. "You think I don't feel anything? That I can just switch it off?"
He stood up suddenly, frustration breaking through the last layer of restraint.
"You walk into a room and I—"
He stopped, breathing hard.
"I lose every bit of control I thought I had."
My heart raced.
He walked around his desk, stopping a few steps in front of me but not close enough to be dangerous.
"But wanting you doesn't mean I get to have you," he said. "That's reality."
"Then why did you ask me to stay?"
He froze.
Slowly, painfully, he admitted:
"Because I missed you."
The words hit harder than they should have.
"I missed the way you look at me," he said.
"I missed the sound of your voice."
"I missed… everything I'm not supposed to miss."
My breath caught.
"And I hate that I can't have what I want," he finished, voice barely audible.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
He took a tiny step closer, not enough to touch, but enough that I could feel his warmth again.
"This can't happen," he whispered. "But I still—"
His voice broke.
"—still want you here."
I didn't touch him. I didn't move. I just looked at him.
And the way he looked back at me told me everything:
The rules he set were already falling apart.