Three Meters Of Desire

CHAPTER FIVE

A week passes like torture.

I go to classes. I work on my thesis. I smile when people talk to me. But inside, I'm dying.

Because I can't stop thinking about him.

AJM. Professor Grant. The man who made me feel seen and valued, who turns out to be the same person who crushes my dreams in his office twice a week.

"You're doing it again," Sophie says from across the breakfast table.

"Doing what?"

"Staring at your phone."

I set my phone face down. "I'm not staring."

"You've checked it sixteen times in the last ten minutes."

Because I keep hoping. Hoping he'll text me. Hoping he'll ask why I disappeared. Hoping he still cares about the girl he thinks lives 147 miles away.

But his messages stopped three days ago.

The last one is burned into my memory: I hope you are fine. I actually cared for you and I wish we could talk, but I will definitely give you space. Sorry if I wasn't a good friend or if I offended you.

A good friend. If only he knew.

"Elena," Sophie says gently, "you have to tell him."

"Tell him what? That I'm the student whose work he keeps rejecting? That I've been lying to him about who I am?"

"You weren't lying. You didn't know."

"But now I do know. And I can't unknow it."

I've been going to Professor Grant's office twice a week for thesis meetings. Sitting across from him while he critiques my work, knowing that this same man encouraged me through text messages. Knowing that he cares about LenaM but sees Elena Carter as just another struggling student.

It's killing me.

My phone buzzes. For one wild second, my heart leaps, thinking it might be him.

It's just a reminder about my thesis defense today.

"Today's the day," I tell Sophie.

"Your final chapter submission?"

"Yeah. If Professor Grant approves it, I can schedule my thesis defense. If not..." I shrug. "I guess I'll be stuck here another semester."

"He'll approve it. Your work is good, Elena."

I wish I believed that. But this past week, trying to write while my heart was breaking, hasn't exactly produced my best work.

That morning, my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.

Wait. Not unknown.

AJM.

My hands shake as I read it.

Good luck with your thesis submission today. I know we're not talking anymore, but I still think about you. I hope you know how special you are.

Tears blur my vision. He's thinking about me. Even after I disappeared without explanation, he's still cheering me on.

I want to respond so badly it physically hurts. But I can't. Hopefully he forgets about me.

I delete the message and walk into Professor Grant's office.

He's sitting behind his massive desk in his expensive suit, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. When he sees me, he doesn't even smile.

"Miss Carter. Your final chapter."

I hand him the printed pages with trembling hands. "I know it's not perfect, but—"

"Let me be the judge of that."

He reads in silence while I sit in the uncomfortable chair, my palms sweating. This is it. Three years of work comes down to the next five minutes.

Finally, he looks up.

"This is disappointing, Miss Carter."

My heart sinks.

"I expected better from you. You've been at Princeton for over three years. You know this is a school of high educational standards, and if you're ready to graduate, you need to put in the work."

"But I did put in the work—"

"Clearly not enough." He slides the papers back across the desk. "Revise and resubmit. Again."

I take the papers with numb fingers. "Professor Grant, I—"

"That will be all, Miss Carter."

I stumbled out of his office, my vision blurry with unshed tears. Three years. Three years of struggling and working and proving myself, and it's still not enough.

I make it to my car before I break down completely.

My phone buzzes.

AJM: There's a student at my school working on the same topic as you. But honestly, her work isn't nearly as insightful as yours. You have something special.

I stare at the message, my heart cracking wide open.

He's talking about me. About my thesis. He's telling the real me that some other student's work isn't as good as mine.

But I am that student. The one whose work he just rejected.

How can he think LenaM is special while telling Elena Carter she's not good enough?

I drove home sobbing.

******

"Absolutely not," I tell my friends. "I'm not going out."

But Mia, Lila, and Sophie are already pulling clothes out of my closet.

"You need this," Mia insists. "You've been moping for a week."

"I have good reason to mope."

"Which is exactly why you need to get drunk and dance," Lila adds.

They dress me up in a black dress that's tighter than anything I usually wear, do my makeup, and drag me to some club downtown that's way fancier than anywhere I can afford.

The music is loud, the lights are flashing, and within an hour I'm drunk enough that everything feels slightly less terrible.

"See?" Sophie shouts over the music. "Isn't this better than crying on my couch?"

Maybe. The alcohol is definitely helping numb the pain.

My phone rings. The music is so loud I almost didn't hear it, but I felt the vibration.

AJM.

My heart stops. He's calling me. After a week of silence, he's actually calling.

My drunk brain makes the decision before my sober brain can stop it.

"Hello?" I answer, stumbling outside where it's quieter.

"LenaM?" His voice sounds completely different. Rough and broken and... drunk. Very drunk. "Jesus, I didn't think you'd actually answer."

There's pain in his voice.

"I'm drunk," I blurt out.

He laughs, but it's not a happy sound. It's bitter and self-deprecating. "So am I. Very, very drunk. I'm sitting at a bar drowning my sorrows because the most amazing woman I've ever talked to disappeared on me."

My chest tightens. "AJM..."

"I know, I know. You don't want to talk to me. But I couldn't stop myself from calling. I miss you so much it's pathetic."

I can hear the slur in his words now. He's not just drunk — he's wasted.

"Where are you?" he asks, his voice slightly muffled like he's leaning on something.

"Some club downtown," I whisper. "My friends dragged me out to forget my problems."

"What club?" His words are definitely slurred now.

I look up at the neon sign, my vision slightly blurry. "Nexus."

Silence. Then a sharp intake of breath.

"You're kidding me."

"What?"

"I'm at Nexus right now. At the bar. Drinking whiskey and feeling sorry for myself."

The world tilts sideways. Not from the alcohol from shock.

"You're here?"

"Top floor. VIP section." He laughs again, that broken sound. "God, what are the odds? The woman who's been haunting my thoughts for a week is in the same building."

My hands are shaking. He's here. In the same club. Probably less than a hundred feet away from me right now.

"This is crazy," I breathe.

His voice drops lower. "Where are you in the club? I need... I need to see you. Please. I know I have no right to ask, but I'm drunk and desperate, and I miss you so f*****g much."

The raw need in his voice breaks something inside me.

"I'm outside. Getting air."

"Don't move. Please don't move. I'm coming to find you right now."

“I'm right at the front dressed in a red gown.”

The line goes dead.

I stand on the sidewalk, my heart hammering against my ribs. This is insane. I should run. I should get an Uber and disappear before he finds me.

But I can't move. My feet are rooted in the pavement.

Minutes pass like hours. Every time someone exits the club, I hold my breath.

Then I hear his voice.

"LenaM?"