ATTACHMENTS

“Is life valuable on its own… or only because of what we attach to it?" Prof. Hale asked, head tilted downward as he stared at his brown shoes. Acting as if he wasn't expecting an answer, yet the hall was filled with thoughts. On this fresh morning at the university, Amber stood up to answer for the class, confidently, adjusting her laptop to stand freely and share her thoughts on the question. “Life is valuable because being alive is the literal prerequisite for everything else; the meaning we add is just a bonus, not the foundation.” Amber's voice was bold and steady. Her fingers stayed glued to the button of her shirt. Her eyes were wide open, waiting. “What's your name, miss?” The professor asked, adjusting his vest, eyes still locked on his shoes as his nose twitched. A bit disturbed, to she stood there. A tiny pause of quiet filled the room. “Why stand if you’re not even sure who you are?” Prof. Hale added while clicking his hands on the table to produce a little musical rhythm. “My name's Amber Chri…Christian,” she stuttered. Her throat went dry. Her fingers suddenly felt paralyzed. The room started feeling smaller. The air is colder. Prof. Hale looked forward, moving his dreads away from his line of sight. “Amber. Was that your conclusion or something you wish was right?” Amber's heart tightened in her chest. She lost her grip on the button and let her hand drop to the table. “That’s the baseline reality: life has a built-in value just by existing, and everything we 'attach' to it is just us trying to narrate a story that's already playing.” The students began to sit up and adjust their seats, interest rising. The Professor smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "If the story was already playing before you arrived… who decided it was worth watching?” he asked. This time, her chest burned with frustration, but she pushed forward. “The universe doesn't need a critic to be impressive; life is the only thing that actually exists, so it’s the ultimate value by default.” She responded sternly. The hall went dead silent. Eyes moved from Amber to Prof. Hale and back to Amber. He stared directly at her now. His gaze locked on hers. "If life is valuable simply because it exists… Does that make a coma patient and a man chasing his purpose worth the same thing? If existence is enough… then mediocrity is equal to excellence. Are you willing to live in that world?” He asked, standing upright. “They.. they.. They are worth the same because human value is a floor.” Her voice came out shaky. “Not a ceiling; you don't earn the right to exist by being busy or useful.” Her hands were trembling slightly now. "Then why do we grieve differently — a stranger's death and a mother's? If the floor is equal… why doesn't the loss feel equal?” he asked, leaning back against the table. Amber swallowed hard. Her shoulders dropped. She couldn’t find the words fast enough. The confidence she started with was slipping away. “Thought so,” he said after a moment. "Grief doesn’t measure life—it measures attachment. The ‘floor’ doesn’t grieve. People do. Which means value was never in existence… it was always in what we chose to hold onto.” Prof. Hale added. He picked up the marker and wrote in bold on the board: ATTACHMENT CREATES MEANING! Chairs scraped as students started talking again in low voices. But Amber stayed frozen in her seat, her mind spinning louder than the noise around her. “That man thinks too much,” someone murmured. “New generation Socrates,” another added. She barely heard them. Her fingers twisted together under the table. “You paused!” The voice came from beside her. She looked up; it was Prof. Hale. He stood there, laptop messenger bag in hand, adjusting his vest. “Most people don't,” he said, in a relaxed tone. Amber sat up straighter, turning toward him. “I just didn't have a complete answer,” she said quietly, looking down. “That’s not a weakness. That’s where the work starts.” A small pause. She tilted her head slightly. “How do you study psychology?” he asked, stepping closer. “Do you study to pass or to be in control?” he continued, pushing his dreads back. Amber looked up at him. His eyes were steady, almost too steady, which made her stomach tighten. “I.. I don't know,” she replied, her mind suddenly blank. “Seriously.. I take it seriously,” she pushed back quickly. “Good.” He glanced at her shoes. “You forgot to allow your rope to cross the last eyelet in your left shoe,” he said. Amber’s face grew hot, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. He reached into his bag and pulled out a white card with bold writing: “Intellectual growth is a prerequisite for mental maturity.” He dropped it on her table, the edge grazing her hand. “7:00 p.m. today. 23 Emerald Street. I'm expecting you there.” “Why? What's happening there?” she inquired. “Let the hungry bird seek its food.” He then turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing through the now mostly empty hall.