The silent separation

Andrew's POV

I didn't sleep. Not even for a minute.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the classroom door rattling violently under the janitor's hand — heard the metallic shake of the knob, felt Mark's breath against my neck in the suffocating darkness behind the storage cabinet.

One more second.

That was all it would've taken. One more second, and everything would've been destroyed. My scholarship. My future. Mark's career. Blackwood would've swallowed us whole.

I stared at the ceiling of my dorm room as weak morning light bled through the blinds. My phone sat on the pillow beside me like a loaded weapon.

The anonymous text was still there.

I know what you did with Professor Vale.

The words burned into my skull. I'd reread the message at least fifty times during the night, hoping I'd suddenly realize it was some dumb prank.

But it wasn't.

Whoever sent it knew. And worse — they had proof.

My stomach twisted violently. I sat up slowly, dragging trembling hands over my face. My chest felt hollow, scraped clean from the inside.

I couldn't do this anymore. Not with Mark. Not now. Maybe not ever.

The thought alone nearly crushed me — because despite everything, despite the danger and the fear and the sheer impossibility of it all, I wanted him. God, I wanted him so badly it hurt to breathe. But wanting him was exactly what would destroy us both.

I grabbed my phone again. No new messages. Still, my pulse hammered.

I opened Mark's contact instinctively. My thumb hovered over his name. For one pathetic second, I imagined texting him — We need to talk, or maybe just I'm scared — because I was. Terrified.

Instead, I locked the screen and shoved the phone into my pocket hard enough to hurt.

Distance. That was the only way out now. I had to make this believable. No lingering stares. No secret conversations. No accidental touches. Nothing.

If the blackmailer was watching, I needed to give them exactly what they wanted.

I needed to erase us.

Even if it killed me.

The advanced literature seminar was already half full when I arrived. Usually I sat in the middle row — not too close, not too far, the perfect distance to quietly watch Mark teach without looking suspicious. Today, I walked straight past my normal seat. Past the students talking loudly, past the warm sunlight pouring through the tall windows, straight to the back corner.

I pulled my hood over my head and sat down without looking at anyone.

A few students glanced at me curiously. I ignored them, my fingers clenched tightly around my pen as anxiety clawed through my chest.

You can do this. You have to.

The classroom door opened — and instantly, every nerve in my body came alive.

Mark walked in carrying a stack of papers under one arm. Dark coat. Silver watch. Sharp jaw tense beneath the fluorescent lights. He looked exhausted, and for one dangerous second, my stupid heart softened.

Then his eyes began scanning the room. Looking for me.

I knew exactly when he found me. I felt it — that invisible pull between us snapping tight across the lecture hall. Slowly, I lifted my gaze.

Our eyes met.

The hurt on his face hit me like a physical blow. Confusion flickered across his expression first, then concern, then something colder. I looked away immediately, staring straight down at my desk.

Don't look at him. Don't react. Don't ruin this.

The room fell silent as Mark set his papers down at the podium.

"Good morning," he said evenly.

His voice sounded calm. Professional. But I knew him well enough now to hear the strain underneath.

The lecture began. Normally, listening to Mark teach was effortless — he spoke with a quiet intensity that made every word feel alive, every boring theory meaningful. Today, I absorbed none of it. I could feel his attention drifting toward me repeatedly, and every time it happened, I kept my eyes lowered. Every muscle in my body screamed to look back.

I didn't.

Forty minutes into the seminar, Mark suddenly closed his book. The sharp sound echoed through the room.

"Since participation has been disappointingly weak lately," he said coolly, "we'll be having a surprise quiz."

Groans filled the classroom. Students immediately started panicking, flipping through notes. But I barely heard them, because I knew exactly why he was doing this.

Mark thought I regretted what happened between us. He thought I was avoiding him because I was ashamed. And now he was building walls too — professional walls, safe walls — and the realization hurt far more than I expected.

Papers were passed down each row until one landed on my desk.

I stared at the questions. Easy. Painfully easy. I knew every answer within seconds. Under normal circumstances, I would've aced this without trying.

But normal circumstances no longer existed.

If I kept excelling in his class, Mark would keep noticing me. Watching me. Caring. And if the blackmailer saw that —

I swallowed hard. My grip tightened around the pen.

Then slowly, I chose the wrong answer.

Question after question. Deliberately sloppy. Deliberately careless. Every incorrect sentence felt like carving pieces out of myself. By the third page, my vision blurred — because this wasn't just a failed quiz. This was me cutting the cord between us with my own hands.

I hated it. I hated every second of it.

The room remained eerily quiet except for scribbling pens and the ticking wall clock. When time was up, Mark stepped down from the podium and began collecting papers row by row.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

My pulse thundered violently as he approached the back. Students handed him their quizzes without looking up.

Then he stopped beside my desk.

Silence swallowed everything. I forced myself to lift my eyes.

Big mistake.

Mark was already staring at me. Not angry — not exactly. Wounded. And that was so much worse. There were a thousand things trapped behind his eyes: questions, frustration, pain — and underneath all of it, disappointment.

My chest tightened so hard it almost hurt to breathe.

I wanted to explain everything. I wanted to grab his sleeve and tell him none of this was real, that I was trying to protect him, that I would rather break my own heart than watch Blackwood destroy him.

But I couldn't.

So instead, I handed him the paper silently. His fingers brushed mine for less than a second. The tiny contact nearly shattered my composure.

Mark glanced down at my answers briefly. I saw the exact moment he realized I'd failed. His jaw tightened.

Then, without a word, he took the paper and moved on. Just like that. No hesitation. No lingering glance. Nothing.

The distance between us had finally become real — and somehow, that hurt more than the fear ever did.

Class ended ten minutes later. Students flooded out noisily, already complaining about the quiz.

I stayed seated until nearly everyone had left.

Mark remained near the podium, organizing papers. I could feel his presence like static electricity against my skin. But neither of us spoke. Not a single word.

Eventually, I stood. My backpack felt unbearably heavy as I slung it over one shoulder. Then I walked toward the exit, each step feeling wrong — like I was abandoning something precious behind me.

Right before I reached the door, I made the mistake of glancing back.

Mark was watching me. Completely still. The expression on his face nearly destroyed me, because he looked like he'd finally given up trying to understand me.

I turned away immediately and stepped into the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind me.

And my phone buzzed.

My entire body froze. Slowly, I pulled it from my pocket.

Unknown Number.

A new message appeared on screen.

Good boy. Keep ignoring him, and maybe I won't press send to the Dean today.

Cold fear slithered down my spine. But the next line was even worse.

Tonight, I need a favor. Come to the private student lounge at 6:00 PM sharp. Don't be late, Calebs.

Calebs.

Not Caleb. Not Andrew.

That stupid nickname only one person at Blackwood ever used.

Only one.

My blood turned to ice — because suddenly, I wasn't scared of a faceless blackmailer anymore.

I was scared that I might actually know them.