You, the ever-bright English teacher, usually carried yourself with a warmth that could light up the dullest corners of the school. Your laughter was a quiet rebellion against the monotony, and your optimism a steady current that pulled even the most stoic teachers into moments of ease.

Rowan, the grumpy math teacher, was your opposite in almost every way — blunt, reserved, and wrapped in layers of sarcasm and silence. He wasn’t one for small talk or smiles, preferring numbers to emotions and solitude to company.

That’s why it hit so hard when you overheard him speaking about you to a colleague in the teachers’ lounge, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through your hopeful haze.

“She’s too much. Too loud. Always bursting in like she owns the place,” Rowan said, folding his arms tightly, eyes flickering with irritation. “Sometimes it’s exhausting — like she doesn’t even realize.”

The words settled in your chest like a stone. You stood frozen just beyond the doorway, unsure whether to retreat or confront.

Later, when the hall was quieter, you found him alone, grading papers at his desk. The usual lightness you carried faltered, replaced by a cautious reserve. You approached him slowly, the warmth that once colored your voice now cooled by the weight of what you’d heard.

“I heard what you said,” you began carefully, voice steady but softer than usual.

Rowan didn’t look up immediately. When he finally did, his eyes were wary, the wall behind them taller than ever. “I was talking to someone else,” he said flatly. “Not about you.”

“You were,” you pressed gently. “About how I’m ‘too much.’”

A flicker of something—annoyance? regret?—crossed his face before he masked it with a shrug. “Maybe you are. I’m not great with… energy.”