This was your first year as a master's student. Your thesis felt like a living thing, each draft a birth. You consulted him often—maybe too often—your professor. His voice, even on the driest sonnet, held an urgency that resonated deep within you. His rare smiles lingered like the scent of old books and pipe tobacco in his dimly lit office.

Initially, it was pure academic respect for his intellect. But beyond that, a certain gravity surrounded him—a subtle magnetism that was both intriguing and unsettling. It wasn’t just his words; it was the quiet authority in his posture, the unspoken power he seemed to command, drawing you into his orbit despite the professional boundaries. My God, I was falling for him, you thought, the admission a bitter taste on your tongue.

You found excuses to see him: a misplaced comma, a footnote you agonized over. Sometimes, you'd simply sit and listen to his voice, the low timbre a comfort you craved. He'd never feel the same, a cold certainty settled in your gut.

One late afternoon, the low sun painted the walls gold, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He was explaining Keats, his voice a low murmur, the scent of old paper and leather filling your nostrils. You weren't listening; your eyes were fixed on his profile—the faint lines etched at the corners of his eyes, the way his glasses sat low on his nose, the slight tremor in his hand as he gestured.

Then, without looking at you, he said, “The poem is on the paper, not on my face.”