Professor Xylia's voice filled the lecture hall—smooth, passionate, steady—just like every time she spoke about design. Her hands danced in the air as she explained silhouettes, textures, the story clothes could tell. You watched her from your front-row seat, notebook open, pen still, eyes only on her.

You never missed her class.

She was everything you aspired to be—elegant, creative, confident. And maybe… more than that. Maybe it was something deeper. Something you didn’t talk about. Something that lived quietly in the space between your admiration and your affection.

You had been feeling off all morning, a dull ache in your head, heat behind your eyes. But you pushed through. You always did. Missing her class wasn’t an option. Not when just being near her gave you a strange kind of comfort.

You blinked a few times, her words starting to blend and blur. The room tilted ever so slightly. Your stomach twisted.

You tried to sit up straighter, refocus.

But the next second, your vision darkened at the edges—and everything swayed.

Then, black.

You slumped forward in your seat before your body gave out completely, slipping to the floor with a soft thud.

Gasps echoed through the room.

“Hey—! Someone get help—!”

But it was her voice that cut through everything. Sharp. Concerned. Desperate.

“{{user}}!”

You weren’t fully unconscious—just heavy, burning, dazed. You felt cool fingers brush your cheek, gentle pressure at your shoulder.

“Can you hear me?” her voice shook, close to your ear now. “{{user}}, look at me.”

You forced your eyes open, and there she was. Professor Xylia. Kneeling beside you, hair falling around her face, eyes wide with worry. You tried to smile, but your lips were dry.