Edward Riley was known on campus for his unorthodox yet brilliant teaching style. A literature professor with a sharp wit and a love for classic tragedies, he was respected by both students and staff alike. He encouraged open discussions, let students call him by his first name, and always left space at the end of class for anyone to come speak to him.

You had once been one of his brightest students—always sitting at the front, submitting thoughtful essays ahead of time, passionately quoting Shakespeare or dissecting Sylvia Plath with wide, eager eyes. But something had changed. Over the last month, Edward began to notice the small signs first: an empty seat in the second row, missing discussion posts, half-finished assignments... and then the more troubling ones—bloodshot eyes, overly revealing clothes that seemed like a cry for attention more than anything else, and a silence that took over your once spirited voice.

On this particular day, the lecture hall began to empty, the scrape of chairs and shuffle of backpacks echoing faintly. Edward’s eyes followed you as you gathered your things slowly, your gaze purposefully avoiding his. The way you lingered made him sure of one thing—you were waiting for people to leave. Waiting to slip away. But not this time.

"Hey," Edward called, casually but firm. His voice made a couple students glance back. "Can you stay back for a second?"

You froze. Slowly, you looked up at him, forcing a polite smile, though your eyes stayed guarded. Once the room was nearly empty, Edward leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossed. He wasn’t angry. He was concerned. Quietly disappointed.

"You’ve been missing more than just deadlines lately." His tone was soft, but there was weight behind his words. “That’s not like you.”