Five
1102 Words
Emma:
I make it out of the stairwell on muscle memory alone.
My brain? Offline.My internal organs? Rearranged.My heart? Somewhere around my throat, beating like a squirrel on caffeine.
I don’t even realize I’m speed-walking until I nearly mow down an unsuspecting freshman holding a stack of textbooks like a sacrificial offering to academia.
“Sorry!” I squeak, then pivot and power-walk faster.
I don’t stop until I reach the English building bathroom—the one that smells vaguely of ink, despair, and the souls of overworked TAs.
The second the door shuts behind me, I grab the sink and inhale like someone who forgot oxygen was real.
“Oh my god,” I whisper to my reflection. “You are an idiot.”
My reflection looks back at me, wide-eyed, flushed, hair slightly messed from—god—walking into him. Into him. Like a human Roomba. At least Roombas don’t get horny about it.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Why did he look at me like that? Why did I look at him like that? Why did the universe give him hands and a jawline and a voice that sounds like it should have a warning label?
I turn on the sink and splash my face, then press my palms against the cold porcelain.
Deep breath.
Another.
And another.
Useless.
I can still feel the heat of his hands on my waist. I can still hear the way he said my name—soft, like he was letting himself want something he wasn’t supposed to.
“Stupid,” I mutter. “Dangerously stupid.”
I can’t do this again. I promised myself I wouldn’t be that girl—the one who spirals over a guy, the one who makes reckless, entirely body-led decisions.
I grab a paper towel and blot my face like I’m trying to erase every trace of him off my skin.
And then—of course—my phone buzzes.
Tessa 😈:???? Girl, where are you? Did u die again in the English building
Emma: Almost. I ran into him.
Three seconds pass.
Four.
Five.
Then—
Tessa 😈: WHAT?! NO! SEND LOCATION!! DO U NEED MEDICAL EXTRACTION??
Before I can answer, the bathroom door swings open and a girl I’ve never seen walks in, humming as she fixes her lip gloss. She glances at me through the mirror.
“You good?” she asks, like someone commenting on the weather.
“Yes,” I say too fast. Too cheerfully. Too… unhinged.
She blinks, nods slowly, and leaves.
I slump against the counter.
Okay. Okay. I need to think.
I can’t avoid him forever. I have a class with him tomorrow. Tomorrow. As in less than twenty-four hours from now. As in my brain is going to melt out of my ears.
I push off the sink and head for the door, telling myself I can at least die somewhere that doesn’t smell like toner.
But when I step into the hallway, my heart drops into my stomach.
Because there, at the end of the corridor, is Wright.
He’s not looking at me—thank god—but he’s talking to someone—a woman. Tall, effortlessly pretty, wearing a faculty badge clipped to her blazer. She’s smiling at him, tapping a folder against her hip like she’s comfortable, familiar.
He says something. She laughs.
Something tightens in my chest, irrational and sharp.
Jealousy.
No. Nope. Illegal. I refuse.
I start walking in the opposite direction, head down, pretending I’m just a normal student with a normal heart rate and not a walking emergency alarm.
But then I hear it—my name.
“Emma?”
My entire body freezes.
Not Wright.
The other woman.
I turn slowly.
She gives me a warm, professional smile. “You’re in Professor Wright’s intro class, aren’t you? Emma Hart?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Hi.”
Wright’s expression does something small and painful when our eyes meet. A twitch. A flicker. Like a pulse caught under skin.
The woman gestures between us. “I was just telling Gabriel—Professor Wright—that administration is reviewing student-teacher boundaries this semester.”
My stomach drops.
Wright stiffens almost imperceptibly beside her.
She continues, oblivious. “There’ve been concerns about faculty being overly informal with students. We’re tightening policies.
Wright’s jaw tightens.
Policies.
Rules.
Boundaries.
This is a nightmare.
The woman gives me another friendly smile. “Nothing you need to worry about, of course. Just part of the university’s… ongoing efforts.”
Then she excuses herself with a nod and disappears down the hall.
The silence she leaves behind is heavy.
Too heavy.
I swallow, throat tight. “So… that sounds… not great.”
Wright drags a hand over his mouth, eyes closing for a fraction of a second as if he’s trying to hold something back—frustration, fear, want, all of it.
“It’s fine,” he says quietly. “It’s just policy talk. They do this every few years.”
But his voice isn’t steady.
And his hands are shoved in his pockets like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if they aren’t.
“Emma,” he says, softer, “listen to me. Whatever you think you heard—”
“I didn’t hear anything,” I cut in quickly. “Nope. Zero hearing. I am basically deaf.”
His exhale is a low, disbelieving laugh.
A rough one.
One that makes my knees feel unreliable.
But then he schools his expression again, the wall coming back up. Professional. Controlled. Untouchable.
“Go home,” he murmurs. “Please.”
I open my mouth—no idea what I intend to say, only that it feels like something inside me is begging to break free.
But he shakes his head once. Final.
“We’ll talk in class,” he says. “Not here.”
Not here.
Not where someone could see.
Not where someone could question.
Not where this thing between us becomes dangerous for him.
He steps back.
And I feel it—like the floor shifts, like the distance is physical and wrong.
He nods once, forcing neutrality into his face.
“Goodnight, Miss Hart.”
Miss Hart.
Formal. Distant.
A blade twisted gently.
He turns and walks away, each step measured, every line of his body pulled tight with something he won’t let himself show.
I stand there long after he disappears around the corner.
My chest aches.
My throat burns.
And I realize with a clarity that terrifies me:
Tomorrow in class?
There is no universe where I survive it intact.
- Writer
