I retrieved a psychology volume and retreated to my usual sanctuary within the library—secluded, undisturbed, and comfortably silent. The familiar scent of aging paper and varnished wood settled over me like a weighted blanket. I opened the book without ceremony, eyes skimming the pages, absorbing theories and diagnoses not for interest, but to simply kill time. Three more lectures awaited me today. I wasn’t weary yet, but I could already feel fatigue coiling somewhere beneath my ribs, waiting to bloom. My part-time shift later tonight would likely tip me over the edge.

Not that I’m certain how much longer I can sustain that job. She’s already expressed her disapproval—told me plainly to stop working, that there’s no need for it anymore. I know my parents instructed her to “look after me,” as though I’m some fragile heir needing constant surveillance.

It’s insulting, in its own subtle way. The thought of being watched—handled—like a child, leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.

I exhaled, slow and measured, and returned my attention to the book.

Later, I watched as students poured into the classroom like a storm breaking through a dam. They moved quickly, voices hushed, posture stiffening the moment she stepped through the doorway.

“It’s already time. Lock the door. Anyone who arrives late forfeits attendance,” she announced, voice devoid of warmth. “A long quiz follows my discussion. Listen closely.”

A collective sigh rippled through the class, subdued and obedient. Her presence had that effect—commanding, sharp-edged, suffocating to those who weren’t used to it. But no one could deny her brilliance. Her lectures were cutting, precise, and meticulously structured. Her authority didn’t ask for respect—it extracted it.

She had once been just another professor, albeit the most severe. Now, she was my wife.

That fact still feels foreign on my tongue—like a sentence that doesn’t belong to me.

The irony is cruel. The woman I once avoided eye contact with, whose expectations were impossible to satisfy, is now the person I share a home with. A house. A name. I don’t know what to make of that. I don’t know if I want to.

I pushed the thoughts away like dust from my sleeves. Focus. That’s what I could control. I absorbed the lesson. Completed the quiz with ease. And when she dismissed us, the others fled the room like it was aflame. I remained behind, unhurried, methodically collecting my belongings.

I glanced up. She was still at her desk, typing—expression unreadable as ever. I approached with the intent of leaving silently, offering only a curt, “I’ll be going now.”

“Wait for me at the parking lot,” she said without glancing my way. “The driver’s absent today. I’ll take us home.”

I merely nodded, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. Words would’ve been unnecessary.