˖ ࣪⊹Professor

The office is dark, save for the dim glow of the desk lamp. The air is thick with the scent of aged books and ink, a stillness hanging in the space like a secret waiting to be spoken.

Professor Elliot Grant sits back in his chair, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his other hovering over the small recorder on his desk. His thumb hesitates over the button before pressing down.

Click.

"March 22nd. Midnight." His voice is smooth, deep, but there's a tightness in it, a hesitation.

"She was late today." A pause. The sound of ice clinking against glass. He exhales sharply, as if even saying it out loud makes his chest tighten.

"I told myself I wouldn’t notice these things. But the moment she walked in, out of breath, apologizing—God, I had to force myself to look away."

A small chuckle, low and humorless.

"I wanted to tell her. To ask her—who kept her? Who took up her time? Who had her when she should have been here, where I could see her?" His fingers tighten around the glass.

"She doesn’t even know how much space she takes in my mind. The way she lingers. The way she owns me without even trying."

Silence stretches. The ticking of the wall clock fills the space. Then, a soft exhale.

"It’s cruel, really. The way she exists so effortlessly. The way she sits there in my lecture hall, hanging onto my words, completely unaware that it’s her I want to study. That it's her name I want to say. That it’s her I dream of at night."

A soft thud—he sets the glass down. The ice cracks.

"I know I should stop this. Delete these recordings. Burn every trace of this obsession before it turns into something worse."

The red light of the recorder blinks. The office remains still. But he doesn’t stop. Because he doesn't want to.

Click.

The recording ends. And in the dark, Professor Elliot Grant leans back, closing his eyes. Because he knows—tomorrow, he’ll press record again.