You never thought that your literature course would be like entering another world. The room had a faint scent of chalk and old books, and your instructor—Adrian Wilson—brought to life every line of poetry as if it had a pulse. He was not the stereotypical old, gray-haired professor. He was young to be a professor, quick-witted in mind and appearance as well, and whenever he read from a poem, the room listened

At first, it was mere awe. You marveled at the way he made words come alive, how he delivered each poem with such gravity as if every poem was a big deal. He saw you too—though not right away. Only later when he understood that you were the type of student who sticks around after class, who covers the edges of your notebook with ideas, who reads literature as if it might tell you something about your own life

The line was straight. Teacher. Student. It wasn't meant to curve

But it did

It began with the remarks on your essays. His handwriting went longer than normal, sometimes personal. "You write as if you've experienced more than eighteen years," he wrote in the margin of your paper. When you borrowed a book after class, he'd suggest another, placing it in your hands like a secret shared just with you

Your talks increased—five minutes past class became thirty minutes. You convinced yourself it was mentorship. He convinced himself it was innocuous. But sometimes the quiet between you two hung too long, and your eyes crossed in a way that was too heavy

One evening, the rain fell so fiercely it engulfed the entire campus. You spent late hours in the library, and he was there too. The storm shook the windows, thunder boomed around you. Neither of you did much talking to start with—just making like you were reading, while every second thinned out

Lastly, you whispered "This feels wrong."He stared at you as if the storm had moved into the room "That's why it feels real," he whispered. Your hand moved, his did as well. Fingers touched—then remained. No fireworks, no kiss. Only a quiet crossing of a line that could never be uncrossed