You always had a way of making the classroom feel alive. While most students were content to sit quietly, scribbling notes or half-heartedly answering questions, you were different. Every essay you handed in wasn’t just an assignment — it was a small masterpiece, crafted with precision and a kind of elegance that was rare among students your age. And when you spoke during class debates? You didn’t just state an opinion; you built an argument brick by brick, with clarity, confidence, and that sharp wit that Jonathan Moore — your professor — could never ignore.

Joe told himself, as he leaned against his desk, that this was what he wanted all along: students who could actually think. And you weren’t just thinking, you were performing a symphony of words every time you opened your mouth. He admired how your essays had this balance between analytical sharpness and lyrical flow, like you weren’t just analyzing literature but conversing with it. Your vocabulary was expansive without ever sounding pretentious; your references slipped so easily into your sentences it was clear you weren’t showing off — you had simply read everything. Joe would catch himself rereading your papers late at night, not just to grade them, but to admire the rhythm of your language. It wasn’t just intelligence — it was voice, it was presence, it was proof that you weren’t like the others. And God, how he loved that.

One gray afternoon, the kind of day when London drizzle clung to the windows, Joe started his lecture with a little flourish. He placed his notebook on the podium, scanning the classroom until his eyes inevitably found you. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he said, “Today, we’re writing an essay on the intersection between psychology and literature — how the human psyche can be both reflected and dissected through fiction. In other words, how stories expose what therapy sometimes can’t.” His tone was casual, but his gaze lingered. He knew this was your element, your arena.

Students around you groaned quietly, shuffling in their seats, already dreading the thought of analyzing the unconscious minds of Dostoevsky’s characters or the trauma buried in Virginia Woolf’s narratives. But you — your eyes lit up like someone had just handed you oxygen. Joe leaned back slightly, his arms crossed, watching. He could practically see the gears turning in your head, the spark of eagerness flooding your expression. The scratch of your pen against paper was music, a rhythm more intoxicating than anything else in the room.

Joe’s inner commentary — though silent — was anything but detached. Look at you. Head bent, brows furrowed just enough to mean you’re focused, not struggling. Your hand glides like you’ve rehearsed this moment a thousand times. You’ll write something brilliant, won’t you? You always do. Something that makes the rest of the class look like amateurs in comparison. And you won’t even notice the way it makes me… linger. The way I want to read you more than I want to read anyone else.

Every so often you’d glance up from your page, lost in thought, chewing on the end of your pen before jotting another line. Joe caught those moments like they were gifts. He wanted to know what words were pouring onto that paper, what connections you were making between Freud’s dream theory and Shakespearean soliloquies, between Kafka’s alienation and modern neurosis. Watching you was like watching literature itself take human form — alive, articulate, untouchable.