Chapter 51 Lottie
Lottie
I woke up Wednesday morning groggy, like I never really came out of whatever haze consumed me whole after I left his house.
It takes me a moment even to remember what day it is.
Tuesday is… gone—a blur of half-sleep and silence.
I stayed in bed the entire time.
Didn’t eat. Didn’t move. Didn’t answer anyone.
I only checked my phone once — just once — scrolling through the missed calls and messages with a dull kind of detachment, searching for one name.
Professor Hale.
When I didn’t see it, I locked my phone and shoved it out of reach.
That was enough.
I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
Didn’t want to explain.
Didn’t want to hear concern or questions or pity.
Most of all… I didn’t want to cry.
Because I knew the second I opened my mouth, I wouldn’t be able to stop the tears.
With a quiet groan, I drag myself out of bed, my body heavy and uncooperative, like it’s still weighed down by everything I’ve been trying not to feel.
The room feels too still.
Too empty. Even though he was never here, I feel like I've lost an integral part of myself.
I make my way to the bathroom on autopilot and turn on the shower, stepping under the spray before the water even has time to warm.
The cold hits my skin sharply, pulling a small shiver from me, but I don’t step back.
I almost welcome it.
Anything to cut through the numbness.
A few seconds later, the water warms, and I let out a slow breath, my shoulders dropping slightly as the heat sinks into me.
I wash quickly, mechanically, not letting myself linger too long under the comfort of it.
Because comfort feels… undeserved right now. Unsettling.
My mind drifts anyway.
Back to him.
To the way he looked at me.
To the way he wouldn’t look at me when it mattered most.
I brace my hands against the shower wall, my head dipping forward.
How does he expect this to work?
How does he expect me to sit in his class and pretend nothing happened?
Pretend I didn’t feel what I felt?
Pretend he didn’t either?
My chest tightens.
Because what I felt—It wasn’t small.
It wasn’t fleeting. It wasn’t something I could file away and forget.
Touching him felt like… coming home. Like breaking the surface after being underwater for too long and finally getting to breathe. Like something in me clicked into place in a way I didn’t even realize was missing.
How am I supposed to forget that?
How am I supposed to pretend I don’t remember what it felt like to have him so close, to feel him respond to me, to know — even for a moment — that he wanted me just as much as I wanted him?
My hands curl slightly against the tile.
I drop my forehead into my hands, water streaming down around me as a heavy sigh leaves my chest.
“Why did you have to make that decision, Professor?” I murmur under my breath, my voice barely discernible over the sound of the shower.
Why did you stop us before we even had a chance?
That’s the part I can’t understand. It didn’t feel like he regretted it.
It felt like fear. But fear of what?
Rules? Consequences? Or something deeper than that?
My jaw tightens slightly.
Because whatever it is… I don’t want to let this go.
I step out of the shower and dry off quickly, not bothering to linger. My movements feel automatic, disconnected — like I’m just going through the motions because I have to.
I throw on whatever clothes are closest, not caring if they go together or even fit right.
It doesn’t matter. None of it does.
As I turn to leave, I pause in front of the mirror.
For a moment, I just… stare.
I look exhausted. Not the kind of tired sleep fixes — the kind that settles into your bones and refuses to leave. My eyes are dull, rimmed red, and the dark circles beneath them look heavier than usual, like they’ve deepened overnight.
“Damn,” I mutter under my breath.
The bags under my eyes have baggage.
I huff softly at that, but there’s no real humor behind it—just habit.
I shrug at my reflection like I don’t recognize her, then reach for my coat and scarf, wrapping them tightly around myself.
Armor. That’s what it feels like—something to hold myself together.
I grab my bag and head out the door, the cold air outside biting just enough to keep me present as I make my way to my first class.
I get there early — mostly because I didn’t stop for breakfast.
Not that I could’ve eaten anything anyway. The thought of food turns my stomach.
I slide into my seat and turn my gaze toward the window, watching the wind push through the bare branches of the trees outside. They sway sharply, almost violently, like they’re fighting against something they can’t escape.
I relate to that more than I’d like.
Time passes, but I don’t feel it.
The room fills. People talk. Chairs scrape. The professor comes in.
None of it really registers.
At some point, I hear my name — distant, muffled — and I lift my hand automatically without looking away from the window.
That’s the extent of my participation.
The rest of the class slips by in a blur.
The same thing happens in my second class.
I sit. I exist.
But I couldn’t tell you a single thing that the professors said.
It’s like I’m there physically, but mentally and emotionally, I’m… somewhere else.
By the time it’s time for Professor Hale’s class, I have to stop in the quad outside the Sciences building.
My chest feels tight. Too tight.
I draw in a slow breath… then another… and another.
Like if I don’t, I might actually forget how.
My fingers curl slightly at my sides as I try to steady myself.
Get it together.
It’s just a class. Just him. Just—
I cut the thought off and force myself to move.
I walk down the hallway slower than usual, like I can delay the moment if I don’t get there too quickly. Like time might stretch if I let it.
It doesn’t.
I stop in front of the door, staring at it for a second longer than necessary.
Then I take one more deep breath… and push it open.
The room is already partially filled.
My eyes flick toward him automatically—and I catch it.
The way he stiffens the second I walk in.
Subtle. But not subtle enough.
My heart constricts, but I don’t let it show.
I look away just as quickly and walk to my seat like nothing happened, like I didn’t notice anything at all.
I sit down and fix my gaze somewhere just above his head — a neutral point, safe. He’s in my line of sight, unavoidable, but I don’t look directly at him.
I can’t. Not yet.
He starts speaking. I see his mouth move.
But I don’t hear anything. It’s like my ears are filled with cotton, every word muffled before it can reach me.
The entire class goes like that.
I don’t look at him. I don’t listen. I just… endure.
Until class is almost over.
Something shifts then — I don’t know what — but I finally let my gaze drop.
Just for a second.
Just enough to look at him directly. And he’s already looking at me.
The impact is immediate. Sharp.
There’s so much in his expression it almost knocks the breath out of me — conflict, restraint… and something else.
Something softer. Something that looks a lot like want.
My breath catches in my throat, my lungs forgetting what they’re supposed to do as I get lost in it for a fraction too long.
I look away quickly, panic flaring low in my chest.
Because I can’t trust that, I won’t trust that.
He made his choice. He doesn’t want this.
He wants to walk away. Pretend it never happened.
My jaw tightens slightly.
But my eyes drift back to him anyway, like they have a will of their own.
That warm, honey-brown gaze meets mine again, and this time I don’t look away as quickly.
Because no matter what he says… No matter what he decides…
I know what I feel. And I’m not ready to give this up.
How am I supposed to make him understand that?
That for me…
There is no one else but him.