By the end of the week, I started hearing the whispers.
They weren't loud.
Not yet.
Just threads of speculation drifting through crowded hallways.
"Is he giving special treatment?"
"He talks to him more than the others."
"I saw them alone after class."
"There's something weird going on."
None of it was true.
And yet, somehow, all of it was.
The first time I overheard someone mention his name and mine in the same sentence, I froze. Not because I was ashamed—because I knew how badly this would affect him.
He had tried to warn me.
I didn't take it seriously enough.
That afternoon, I walked into his office without knocking. He looked up immediately, surprise flickering across his face before he covered it.
"You shouldn't come here right now," he said quietly.
"We need to talk."
He closed the folder in front of him, sighing. "I know what you're going to say."
"People are talking."
"Yes," he said. "They are."
"What are we going to do?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he stood, pacing to the bookshelf like he needed distance to think.
"There can't be a 'we'," he said finally. "Not while people are watching."
"That's not fair."
"It's reality."
"So you want to avoid me again? Pretend nothing's happening?"
"I want to protect you," he said, turning sharply. "If they think you're getting something from me—grades, attention, anything—it'll hurt you more than it hurts me."
"But I don't care what they think."
"I do," he said. His voice cracked—barely, but enough for me to hear the strain. "You're too young to have your reputation ruined because of me."
I stepped closer. "You're not ruining me."
"That's what you think," he said, almost pleading. "But you don't understand how fast rumors spread. How ugly they can get."
"And what about you?" I whispered. "Doesn't this hurt you too?"
He laughed under his breath—not amused, but defeated. "It hurts every time I look at you."
My heart tightened.
"I can't ask you to stay away," he said. "But I can't ask you to stay either."
"Then what do you want me to do?"
He swallowed. "I want you to be careful."
"That's not an answer."
"Because I don't know the answer," he admitted quietly.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then, in the softest voice I'd ever heard from him, he added:
"But I don't want you to stop coming."
My breath caught. "Even if it makes everything worse?"
He closed his eyes. "Especially then."
He finally looked at me—really looked—and the exhaustion in his expression told me everything:
He wasn't pushing me away because he wanted to.
He was pushing me away because he didn't know how to hold on without destroying both of us.