No signature. No explanation.

I’m a writer now. I live in a city he once mentioned loving. Sometimes I think I see him in crowded coffee shops — the same slouch, the same hands. But it’s never him.

Something flickered in his eyes. Not disapproval. Recognition.

What began as naughty rebellion turned into something neither of us expected. He told me about his failed engagement, how he took this job to escape his old life. I told him about my father’s drinking, how I acted out because being invisible felt worse than being hated.

“You’re playing with fire,” he said, not looking up.

“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

That was the first time he kissed me. Hard, desperate, like he’d been rehearsing it in his head for months. His hand cupped the back of my neck, and for ten seconds, there were no rules. Then he pulled away, breathing uneven.

Some teachers never stop teaching you how to ache. This is a work of fiction exploring a taboo student-teacher dynamic. In real life, such relationships involve power imbalances and are often harmful or illegal. This story is meant as dramatic art, not an endorsement.