What He’s Hiding
855 Words
I didn’t sleep.
Even when the figure outside my window vanished and I convinced myself it had to be a trick of the light—or a dream-I-I-I—still couldn’t breathe normally. Not with Liam’s voice echoing in my head and Adrian’s silence haunting me even louder.
By the time morning cracked through the blinds, I felt like I’d aged a year.
Campus was alive with Friday energy—couples laughing, girls in crop tops chasing iced lattes, guys arguing over weekend plans. I walked through it all like a ghost. Liam had texted me again.
“Don’t ignore me. I’m not the enemy.”
Blocked. Again.
It wasn’t until I reached my dorm door that I saw it—something taped to the wood with yellowing Scotch tape. My breath stalled.
A note. Handwritten. Crooked.
You don’t know what he’s done.
No name. No signature. Just those seven words written in a messy scrawl.
My fingers trembled as I peeled it off and shoved it deep into my bag. The hallway was empty, but I swore I felt eyes on me. Watching. Waiting.
I locked myself inside and backed away from the door like it might explode.
By late afternoon, I found the courage to open my laptop. I hadn’t checked my student portal all week—partly because I didn’t want to see my name next to Adrian Wolfe’s again. But there it was. ENG314. Professor A. Wolfe. Assignment feedback: Returned.
My heart kicked.
I opened the file.
His comments weren’t many, but they weren’t mild either.
“This is dangerously raw, Lucy. Well-written, but emotionally reckless.”
“You write like you’re trying to exorcise something. Or someone.”
“Come see me.”
Come see me.
I reread the note a dozen times, wondering if it was a trap. Then my phone buzzed.
A new text. Unknown number.
Check your mailbox.
I froze. My mailbox was one floor down—only I had the code.
I threw on a hoodie, ignored the pounding in my chest, and forced myself down the stairs. The mailboxes sat in a shadowed alcove next to the vending machine. I unlocked mine with shaking hands.
Inside was a tiny velvet pouch. I knew that pouch.
I lost that necklace weeks ago. Liam had given it to me for our anniversary—a thin gold chain with a lowercase “i” pendant. I’d thrown it into my bag and never seen it again.
Now here it was. Returned. Silently. Like a dare.
I dropped it like it burned me.
By the time I reached Adrian’s office, my nerves were shot.
He opened the door with tired eyes, his tie undone, sleeves rolled up like he’d fought a war with the syllabus. When he saw me, something unreadable flickered across his face.
“You got my note,” he said.
I nodded.
“Come in.”
The door clicked shut behind me. He didn’t sit. Neither did I.
“I read your submission,” he said, tone tight. “It wasn’t fiction.”
“It wasn’t meant to be,” I replied. “You said to write something that bled.”
He looked at me like I’d stabbed him.
“You wrote about a man with secrets,” he said. “A man who keeps everyone at arm’s length. Who destroys the things he touches.”
“I wrote about what I saw.”
His jaw clenched.
“I’m not a villain, Lucy,” he said quietly. “But I’m not clean either.”
“Then tell me what you’re hiding.”
A pause.
Then he crossed to his desk and pulled open a drawer. He handed me a file—old, wrinkled, and printed from a news website.
I read the headline:
Former Lit Professor Resigns Amid Allegations—University Declines to Comment.
The photo was unmistakable. Adrian Wolfe, younger. Harsher. Angrier.
My throat closed.
“She lied,” he said. “A student. Said we had an affair. We didn’t. But no one wanted the truth. Not when the lie made headlines.”
“Did Liam know?”
His silence was answer enough.
I closed the folder.
“So now you’re doing it for real,” I said, voice shaking. “Sleeping with a student.”
His eyes flared. “I tried to walk away from this. From you.”
“You still can.”
“No,” he said. “It’s too late for that.”
A knock at the office door made us both jump. He motioned for me to stay silent as he opened it a c***k.
No one was there.
Just a folded piece of paper on the floor.
He picked it up and opened it slowly.
His expression changed.
“Adrian?” I asked.
He handed it to me wordlessly.
She’s not safe with you.
That night, I got another text. This time, from Adrian.
“We need to talk. Meet me at my house. 9 PM. Alone.”
I hesitated.
But some part of me already knew I’d go.
And that I wouldn’t be coming back the same.
- Writer
