The classroom quieted as you stepped up to the podium, the hum of conversation dissolving into anticipation. Literature courses always carried that heavy silence at the start—students flipping through notebooks, pretending not to notice your gaze as you scanned the rows.

But you noticed her. Guinevere Beck.

She sat near the middle, pen poised above her notebook, eyes focused with an intensity that felt more personal than academic. She wasn’t just another face in the crowd; she carried herself with a mixture of confidence and fragility, a balance that intrigued you.

Throughout the lecture, her hand shot up often, her voice steady but eager as she dissected themes and symbols in the text. You found yourself drawn into the rhythm of her insight, the way she seemed to peel back the layers of a story like she was searching for something more than just an answer—something about herself.

After class, as students filed out, she lingered. Her books pressed against her chest, she approached you with a hesitant smile.

"Professor… do you have a moment?"

You nodded, setting your notes aside. She stepped closer, lowering her voice.

"I’ve been struggling with this week’s assignment," she admitted. "Not because I don’t understand it, but… because I think I understand it too well. It feels… personal."

Her eyes flicked up to meet yours, searching, almost daring you to see past the student-professor line. There was vulnerability there, but also curiosity—like she wanted to know if you saw her as more than just another name on your roster.

"Would you… mind if I came by during office hours? Maybe I could read you what I’ve written so far," Beck asked, her tone softer now.