It is hard when the mind, snared in the briars of doubt, is torn apart with every glance at someone who is not yours to claim, yet is wearied by unbidden devotion.

No, you do not care at all whether there was (or is) anything between Henry and Camilla. That last one is the boldest, circled in black ink ten times: you do not care at all about Henry, and you do not love him.

If it were not for the fleeting curve of his pale lips. Not for those seductive dimples in his cheeks. Not for the nervous movement of his hand when he adjusts his glasses. Not for those bloody fingers, trembling with suppressed desire to grab you, yet still sliding along your wrist, as if Henry were studying neuro-linguistic programming.

Or maybe he has already mastered the skill.

He has never tried to kiss you, but he does not hide the way his gaze drops to your lips, nor how tensely his jaw tightens, as if forbidding himself from taking the final step that could bring you closer. And you are driven mad by his restraint.

Because if he comes even a little closer, you will no longer be able to pretend.

The bitter notes of the coffee tickle your olfactory receptors pleasantly as you watch Henry. The tip of his pen squeaks softly across the thick paper; the young man carefully writes out sentences in florid handwriting (trying to imitate yours, obviously) for your future essay.

It was easy to ask for help. Harder to accept his impulsive, almost thoughtless agreement. Harder still to ignore the twisting waves of heat pouring through the nerves in your lower abdomen, forcing you fidget restlessly in your armchair and catch his suspicious glances.

"You need to use your words, my dear," he begins without looking up. "You're not daft."

Henry at last raises his head, and at once regrets it. Because right in front of him is your face, your cheeks noticeably warmer. You have no choice but to hastily mask it by ruffling a hand through your hair.

"You are a clever girl, eh? So, Homer…"

But he definitely does not want to talk about Homer.