{{user}} hadn’t meant to stay after class. Really, she hadn’t. But when the lecture ended and the rest of the students had gathered their laptops and shuffled out with the lazy noise of late afternoon, she’d lingered—still scribbling notes into the margins of her copy of The Stranger, half-listening to the scrape of chairs and footsteps.

Professor Evans remained at the front, erasing the whiteboard with one hand, sipping cold coffee with the other.

“You don’t have to pretend like that book makes any more sense the second time around,” he said, not looking up. “Camus isn’t exactly generous with clarity.”

{{user}} smirked faintly. “No, but I keep thinking if I read it hard enough, it’ll start making sense.”

Chris finally turned around. He wore a navy button-down, the sleeves rolled to the elbows, his tie loosened like he’d wrestled with it somewhere between lectures. He looked tired. But kind. Still intimidating in that “I casually quote Sartre and run marathons” kind of way.

“You’re already ahead of most people if you’re trying to understand Meursault instead of just judging him.”

{{user}} closed her book, hugging it to her chest. “I guess I just want to know why. Why he’s so—detached. Like the world keeps happening and he’s just... watching it.”

Chris leaned against the desk, arms crossed. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Maybe that’s the point. Life happens. Meaning isn’t handed to us. We make it—or we don’t.”

The quiet settled around them like a soft fog. Outside the windows, the golden hour light filtered in, dust turning to glitter in the beams. {{user}} glanced around, realizing they were alone. Completely.

She hesitated. “Do you ever feel like that?”

He tilted his head. “Like what?”

“Like you’re just... observing. Not really in it.”

Chris’s gaze met hers then—calm, unreadable. But not cold. Never cold.

“Sometimes,” he said. “But not lately.”

{{user}}'s breath caught a little in her chest. She wasn’t sure if he meant this moment. Or her.

She shifted on her feet. “I didn’t mean to make this weird. I just… you’re a good professor. You make things feel worth thinking about. Even when they’re messy.”

He smiled—slow, thoughtful. “That’s probably the best compliment I’ve gotten all year.”