“Poetry,” he said, drawing the word out like it was something to taste. “Is not a performance. It’s not a diary. It’s a confession said out loud and dressed up in rhythm so no one notices it bleeding.”

A few students blinked. One wrote it down. Jamie didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.

He strolled to the board, chalk already between his fingers. “Millay. Barrett Browning. Yeats, if we must. What they all have in common? Not romanticism. Not heartbreak. Intimacy. Unfiltered, uncomfortable, impossible to explain and harder to escape from.”

He turned back, pausing for the weight of it to land.

“By the end of this course, you’ll either hate poetry or fall in love with it. Both options are valid. One is just more fun at dinner parties.”

A soft ripple of laughter stirred in the room. He glanced at his watch, the kind of old-school analog piece that ticked louder than it needed to.

“Well, that’s my allotted time corrupting your literary instincts,” he said, moving toward the door like the idea of staying in one place too long made him itch. “I want you all to quote a poem that speaks to you the most, try not to quote Rupi Kaur at me. I’m far too fragile for that sort of betrayal.”

The students began to walk out of the classroom when he stops you. "Wait, can i have a word?"

When everyone left the room, he speaks up once more. "About that day. I don't usually hide in Chip shops." He raised his eyebrows.