RULES, LINES, AND THINGS UNNAMEDPART 2
After office hours, things changed.
Not outwardly.
Not in ways anyone else could point to and say, there—that's it.
But she felt it.
Like the air between them had been stretched too thin, pulled taut by something invisible and ready to snap.
The professor began to acknowledge her existence.
Not with warmth.Not with softness.
With precision.
"Your interpretation is incomplete.""You're relying too much on emotion here.""Re-read the final chapter."
Always her.
Always in that calm, controlled tone that made it impossible to tell whether she was being singled out—or tested.
Each comment landed like a touch that wasn't allowed.
Her classmates noticed.
"You've got her attention," someone whispered once, nudging her with a grin. "Lucky."
She forced a smile.
Lucky wasn't the word she'd use.
She started sitting farther back in the lecture hall.
Then closer.
Then back again.
Distance didn't help.
Neither did proximity.
Every time the professor moved across the room, her gaze followed instinctively, treacherously, as if some part of her had already decided where it belonged.
She hated that part.
And wanted it fed.
Her boyfriend grew restless.
"You don't look at me anymore," he said one night, half-joking, half-accusing.
She stared at the television instead of his face.
"That's not true."
It wasn't entirely a lie.
She still looked at him.
She just didn't see him.
He leaned in to kiss her.
She let it happen.
Counted the seconds.
When he pulled away, satisfaction written across his face, she felt nothing but a hollow ache.
In the quiet that followed, a thought surfaced—uninvited, undeniable.
She would never touch me like this.
The realization struck hard.
She sat up suddenly.
"I think I'm tired," she said. "I'm going to bed."
He frowned but didn't argue.
She lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, the professor's voice echoing in her mind like a reprimand she didn't know how to escape.
The breaking point came during a seminar discussion.
A debate—heated, philosophical, alive.
She spoke without thinking.
Passion crept into her voice, sharpened by weeks of restraint.
"I think the author is afraid of desire," she said. "Not because it's immoral—but because once you admit it, you lose the ability to pretend you're in control."
The room went quiet.
Too quiet.
The professor looked at her.
Really looked.
Something dangerous flickered there—raw and unguarded—before it vanished behind steel.
"That's enough," she said shortly. "Let's move on."
After class, she was stopped at the door.
"Stay."
The word was clipped.
Final.
Her classmates filtered out, glancing back curiously.
When the door shut, the silence felt oppressive.
"You crossed a line," the professor said, turning to face her.
"I answered a question."
"You exposed yourself," she corrected. "In a way that invites speculation."
The girl's pulse thundered.
"Is that really what you're worried about?" she asked quietly.
The professor's jaw clenched.
"You need to stop this."
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me like—" She cut herself off.
Like what?
Like someone who mattered.
Like someone she wanted.
The girl took a step closer before she could stop herself.
"You're the one who told me to forget," she said. "But you're the one who keeps reminding me."
The professor inhaled sharply.
"Do you have any idea what you're asking of me?"
"I'm not asking," she whispered. "I'm noticing."
Silence crashed between them.
Heavy.
Charged.
The professor turned away abruptly, hands braced against the desk.
"This ends here," she said. "You will maintain distance. You will act like a student. And I will act like your professor."
The words were firm.
Her voice wasn't.
The girl felt it then—the fracture beneath the control.
And for the first time, she understood something with painful clarity:
THE RULES EXISTED BECAUSE SHE WAS LOSING.
She left the room shaken, heart racing, something bright and terrible blooming in her chest.
This wasn't a mistake anymore.
It was a choice being delayed.
And delays had a way of making consequences worse.