Chapter 44 Lottie
Lottie
I wake up Monday morning with the dull, heavy awareness that I won’t see Professor Hale today. And that knowledge settles in my chest like a stone.
It shouldn’t matter this much. Professors get sick. Classes get covered. Life goes on.
But it doesn’t sit right with me.
If anything, the idea of not seeing him makes something restless inside me stir. I’ve gotten used to those three days a week — used to scanning the front of the room for him, used to the low timbre of his voice explaining concepts, used to the way his eyes flick to me sometimes, like he’s checking I’m still there.
His being sick feels like a disruption in something steady. Something I didn’t realize I depended on until now.
I shuffle out of bed slower than usual, my mood low. The dorm room feels colder this morning, or maybe that’s just me projecting.
I head to the bathroom and wash up quickly. I don’t linger under the warm water. I don't take extra time brushing my hair.
If I don’t get to see his face today, then what’s the point of enjoying any of it?
It’s a ridiculous thought. But it’s there.
I pull on layers — thermal shirt, sweater, thick jeans — then wrestle my coat over everything. Gloves, the scarf I got for Christmas, and my hat. The whole winter armor. I’m so over this cold.
I can’t wait until the weather shifts. Until the air softens and the quad isn’t a frozen tundra. When everything feels lighter. Easier. When you don’t have to brace yourself just to step outside.
Maybe things will feel less tense by then, too.
Once I’m fully bundled, I step out of the dorm hall and into the sharp bite of morning air. The wind cuts across the quad, whipping at my scarf as I tuck my chin down and walk faster.
Students move around me in sleepy clusters.
I wonder if any of them notice when their professors change. When something is off.
Inside the cafeteria, warmth hits me in a wave. I grab a tray automatically, moving through the line without really seeing or smelling anything. Eggs. Toast. Fruit. Coffee. Then I scan my card.
I head to the quiet table by the window — the one Sandy and I claimed.
My appetite is there physically, but not mentally. I eat because I should, not because I want to.
Every few minutes, my mind drifts.
Is he actually sick?
He didn’t look sick last night. He looked… tense. Guarded. Like he was trying not to look at me.
The memory replays in my head — the way he avoided eye contact, the careful distance he kept between us, the way his fingers made sure not to brush mine when he handed me the folder.
That’s not how someone acts when they’re under the weather. That’s how someone acts when they’re hiding something.
After I finish eating, I bundle up and step back out into the cold. The wind feels sharper now. Or maybe I’m just more aware of it.
I cross the quad toward my first class of the day.
The building looms ahead, brick and gray against the winter sky. Inside, I slide into my seat and pull out my notebook.
The lecture starts, and drags.
Every minute feels stretched longer than it should be. The professor’s voice becomes background noise, words sliding past without sticking.
I try to focus. I really do.
But my mind keeps circling back to him.
He started acting weird about two weeks after Christmas break.
I remember it clearly.
That Friday before everything shifted, he was normal. Engaged. Sharp. Present.
By Monday?
It was like someone had swapped him out.
He was there physically — standing at the front of the room, writing on the board — but his eyes were somewhere else entirely. Like he was listening to something none of us could hear. Since then, he’s been his spaced-out, here-but-not-here self.
For a while, I thought maybe something happened over break. Family issues. Health scare. Bad news. But if that were it… Wouldn’t he have told someone? Taken time off?
And he wasn’t acting off immediately after break, so that ruled that out.
Last night confirmed something else.
He isn’t sick. He’s avoiding me.
The realization settles in slowly, uncomfortably, and unwelcome.
But why?
What changed?
What happened two weeks after the break that made him look at me like I’m both important and dangerous at the same time?
The question gnaws at me through the rest of class.
And for the first time, I start wondering—Is this about me?
My first two classes drag by in a haze of distraction and forced focus. I check the time more than I mean to, watching the minutes tick down out of pure habit.
And then, before I know it, it’s time for Professor Hale’s class.
Normally, this is the part of my day I look forward to the most. There’s always a small spark of anticipation when I walk across campus toward the building he teaches in — like I’m about to step into something familiar and steady.
Today, though, that spark feels dim because he won’t be there.
That knowledge still throws me off balance. It sits wrong in my chest, like something unfinished.
He chose absence. He chose to remove himself instead of explaining. Instead of facing whatever is clearly happening between us.
The more I think about it, the more it stings. He ran. He hid behind the excuse of being sick rather than standing in front of me and telling me the truth.
Whatever that truth is.
I square my shoulders as I approach the building, my steps firm against the pavement.
Fine. If he won’t show up, I will.
When I get to the classroom, it feels strange unlocking the door knowing he won’t be inside. The room is too quiet, too still. I walk to the front, set my bag down on his desk, and pull out the folder along with the attendance sheet.
His desk feels… personal. Like I’m trespassing.
I give everyone ten minutes to arrive, leaning casually against the desk while students trickle in. A few glance at me curiously, but no one questions it. They know he’s out sick.
When the ten minutes are up, I take attendance. After this, anyone who comes in will be marked absent.
Once that’s done, I pass out the worksheets row by row. The shuffle of paper fills the room, followed by the scratch of pens.
I sit in Professor Hale’s chair. The moment I do, something strange washes over me.
His scent lingers here. Subtle, but unmistakable.
It clings to the fabric of the chair, the wood of the desk, the air itself. Clean. Warm. Faintly sharp in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
Even when he isn’t here, he’s here.
I swallow and force myself to focus on my own worksheet, working through it quickly. It’s straightforward, like he said.
After finishing, I stand and begin walking around the classroom, collecting completed papers and pausing beside anyone who looks confused. I lean down to explain a formula here, clarify a concept there.
It feels natural. Comfortable. Almost like I belong at the front of the room.
The class flies by faster than my earlier ones. Maybe because I’m occupied. Maybe because I don’t like being in this space when he isn’t in it. Before I realize it, the bell rings.
Students shuffle out, offering quiet thank-yous as they leave. I stack the worksheets neatly, slide them back into the folder, and tuck it into my bag.