The way he looks at me
1220 Words
Lily woke to the soft buzz of her alarm, blinking into the gray morning light seeping through her thin curtains. Her room was still chilly—early fall cold always crept in before the heat clicked on—but she stayed still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. A new semester. A clean start. A chance to focus, bury herself in schoolwork, and keep her heart safely quiet for once.
She breathed out slowly, reminding herself she had promised no distractions this year. Especially not the kind that made her chest flutter or her mind drift during lectures.
Dragging herself out of bed, she tied her hair into a loose ponytail and dressed quickly—black jeans, a soft sweater, the necklace she always wore for confidence. She grabbed her backpack and walked out into the crisp morning, letting the cool air fully wake her. Campus was buzzing, students rushing around her like a river flowing in every direction.
Her first class of the day: Modern Literature.
She wasn’t excited, exactly; she just needed an elective. She didn’t even bother checking the professor’s name.
When she walked in, the room was half-full. She slipped into a seat near the middle—not too close, not too far—and pulled out her notebook. A moment later, the door at the front opened and the room quieted.
“Good morning, everyone,” the professor said.
She finally looked up.
The man standing there was… striking. Tall, dark-haired, with sharp features softened only by the warm tone of his voice. He wore a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and thin-framed glasses that somehow made him look both scholarly and effortlessly confident.
But Lily didn’t think anything of him beyond he looks competent. She didn’t get that little heart-jolt some girls clearly did—she saw the way a few students whispered and nudged each other.
“Welcome to Modern Literature,” he said. “I’m Professor Adrian Hale.”
The name was smooth, too smooth, she thought. Like someone who belonged in a novel, not teaching one.
The first lecture was simple. Straightforward. His voice was steady and controlled, his explanations clear. He moved around the classroom with quiet assurance, but Lily focused on her notes and tried not to think too deeply about anything else. She didn’t notice whether he looked at her, didn’t think about the slight warmth his voice carried, didn’t register that his eyes lingered a moment longer whenever she asked a question.
Not yet.
The first week came and went. Then the second.
Something subtle began to shift—so small she didn’t realize it at first. She would glance up and find him looking her way, but she assumed she was imagining it. She told herself he was just scanning the room, just doing what professors do.
She didn’t have crushes on anyone anymore. She was done with that.
But then came the moment that changed things.
It was a Tuesday morning, two weeks into classes, when Lily walked in early. The room was nearly empty. She sat down, opened her book, and tried to read. A quiet rustle of papers drew her attention; Professor Hale was at his desk, sorting documents. He looked up. Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
But something flickered in his expression—something unreadable, a flash of surprise or recognition or… something she didn’t dare name. He looked away almost instantly, clearing his throat, but the moment stayed with her.
All through class.
All through the walk home.
And that night, when she was brushing her teeth, staring at her reflection, the question echoed in her mind:
Did he look at me like that on purpose?
The thought bothered her. It itched at her like a loose thread she couldn’t stop tugging. She tried to dismiss it—professors looked at students all the time. It didn’t mean anything.
But then came the small, impossible-to-ignore details.
Whenever she raised her hand, he paused longer than necessary before calling on her. When she spoke, he listened in a way that felt… focused. Intent. His eyes didn’t drift. His expression didn’t flicker. It was as if he tuned the entire world out when she talked.
And whenever she entered the classroom, she felt—strangely, uncomfortably—that he noticed.
One afternoon, she arrived late after her bus broke down. She slipped in, cheeks warm with embarrassment, whispering an apology as she moved toward her seat. She kept her head down—until she felt it.
His gaze.
She didn’t dare look, but she felt it like a warmth on her skin, steady and lingering. When she finally glanced up, his eyes were already turning back to the whiteboard, but her chest ached with that strange flutter she thought she’d buried for good.
Why did he look at me like that?
Is it just me imagining things?
Does he…? No. He can’t.
She tried to shake it off. Crushes on professors were cliché, dangerous, pointless. She wasn’t that girl. She wasn’t reckless or naive. And he—he was composed, distant, professional. The kind of man who wouldn’t cross lines.
But the more she watched him—carefully, quietly, from the corners of her eyes—the more she noticed tiny cracks in that perfect composure.
The way his fingers tapped against his notebook when she walked in.
How he adjusted his glasses whenever she spoke.
How he asked her more questions than anyone else, as if pushing her to shine.
Maybe she was imagining it. Maybe she was desperate for attention after months of feeling small. Maybe it was nothing.
Yet the doubt crept deeper.
And the worst part?
A small part of her, buried under logic and fear, wanted him to look at her like that. Wanted him to see her—not as a student, not as a face in a crowded lecture hall—but as someone who mattered.
One evening, as she packed her bag after class, she hesitated. He was still gathering papers at the front. The room emptied around them until only she remained.
She didn’t plan to speak.
But he did.
“Lily,” he said softly, her name sounding almost fragile in his voice. “You’ve been doing excellent work lately.”
Her heart stumbled. “Thank you.”
He gave a small, reserved smile—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, like he was thinking too much.
“Keep going,” he said. “You have… potential.”
He hesitated on the last word, as if he wanted to say something else entirely.
That night Lily lay awake, staring at the ceiling again, her mind humming with questions she didn’t want to admit were forming.
Does he notice me?
Does he think about me?
Am I imagining all of this… or does he like me?
She didn’t know.
But she could feel the slow burn beginning—warm, unsettling, impossible to ignore.
And she knew one thing for certain:
Whatever this was, whatever this strange tension between them was becoming, it wasn’t nothing.
It was something.
Something growing quietly in the spaces between glances, between words, between all the moments she pretended not to feel.
Something she was no longer sure she wanted to run from.
- Writer
