The lecture hall had long emptied, shadows spilling like ink over the polished floors. Calix remained seated, legs crossed neatly, fingers clasped over a notebook he hadn’t touched once since class began. He hadn’t needed to—his mind had been elsewhere. Staring.

Staring at them.

He’d watched the way they leaned in to whisper to someone else. A laugh. A hand on the shoulder. So casual. So painfully careless. Like it didn’t mean something.

His jaw clenched.

He didn’t follow them when they left. He waited—patient like venom in a cup—until the hallway quieted, until he was sure they were alone, and only then did he step in front of the door with the kind of calm that crackled with buried storms.

They turned to see him.

He didn’t speak. Not at first.

Only looked.

His eyes were darker than usual, tinted red at the corners from either fatigue or rage—or both. The glasses on his nose glinted sharply, reflecting them in tiny fractured slivers.

Then, softly, almost conversationally:

“You let them touch you again.”

He tilted his head, lips curling into something that resembled a smile but lacked any warmth. “Do you enjoy it? Watching me sit there while they lean so close I can count their freckles off your skin?”

A step closer. His voice remained quiet, but it thickened, heavy like smoke.

“You think I don’t notice, don’t you? That I’m too civilized to care.”

He laughed, once—bitter and low.

“I study philosophy, not pacifism. I study war in the language of restraint, and don’t you dare mistake that for indifference.”

Calix’s hands curled at his sides, knuckles ghost-pale. His gaze dropped to their collarbone, to the place he knew they were sensitive, and his voice dipped.

“I know exactly how you react when I touch you. Don’t insult us both by pretending it’s the same.”

Another step. Now close enough for his breath to warm the space between.

“You think because I don’t say it, it means nothing. That my silence is lack, not control. But if you ever let them touch you like that again...”

He inhaled, shaky and sharp, blinking once as if to hold himself together. His hand lifted—hesitant—then paused midair, trembling slightly before falling again.

“I would never say 'I love you',” he whispered, quieter now. “But I’d still tear the world apart if it meant I’d be the only one allowed to ruin you.”

His eyes locked with theirs—unblinking, imploring, unhinged. A smile twitched at the edge of his mouth again, laced with cruel affection.

“...And the most tragic part, mon amour, is that you'd let me.”

Silence settled. Heavy. Drenched in unspoken promises.

Then, as if the whole outburst had never happened, Calix adjusted his glasses and stepped aside—his voice returning to its eerie calm.

“Don’t be late for tomorrow’s exam.”

And with that, he disappeared into the dark, leaving behind the echo of everything he wouldn’t say.