Chapter 10

ELIAS

A week had passed since the dinner.

Seven days.

Three History lectures.

Not once had Candace walked through my classroom door.

At first, I convinced myself it was temporary. Students missed class for all kinds of reasons. Illness, family emergencies, poor time management. It wasn’t unusual.

By the end of the week, it no longer felt like a coincidence.

I wasn’t waiting for her anymore.

At least that was what I kept telling myself.

The truth was quieter than that.

Every lecture, my eyes still moved toward the door before I could stop them. It happened so naturally that I rarely noticed until I caught myself doing it. Then I’d force my attention back to the lesson, annoyed that my own thoughts refused to cooperate.

She wasn’t coming.

I needed to accept that.

More importantly, I needed to stop wondering why.

I had enough work to keep me occupied without borrowing problems that weren’t mine.

My students deserved a lecturer who was focused.

Jake deserved a father who wasn’t distracted.

And Candace deserved a professor who remembered exactly where the line was.

I intended to be that professor.

Even if I had to remind myself of it every morning.

My new office had slowly begun to feel familiar.

The once-empty bookshelves were filling with journals and textbooks. A framed photograph of Jake from his undergraduate graduation sat in one corner of the desk, next to a mug I’d already decided held the worst coffee on campus.

The routine helped.

Lecture.

Office hours.

Meetings.

Grading.

The repetition left very little room for unnecessary thoughts.

Or at least, that was the plan.

I was halfway through answering emails when one subject line caught my attention.

Faculty Advising and Student Section Changes

I stared at it for a moment before opening the message.

It outlined the university’s process for requesting changes to course sections. Most requests came from students, but there were circumstances where academic staff could recommend adjustments if there was a valid reason.

My cursor hovered over the reply button.

I shouldn’t.

There wasn’t even a reason.

Not one I could explain.

Still…

I clicked.

A blank email opened.

I rested my hands on the keyboard.

Good morning.

I would like to make an inquiry regarding the process for transferring a student between course sections…

I stopped typing.

Transferred.

The word looked strangely heavy on the screen.

I continued anyway.

…under circumstances where a change may be beneficial for both the student and instructional environment.

Instructional environment.

That sounded appropriately vague.

Professional.

Detached.

Exactly the kind of language people used when they didn’t want to explain the real issue.

I leaned back in my chair.

If Candace moved to another History section, this would end.

She wouldn’t have to keep avoiding my lectures.

I wouldn’t have to worry about maintaining an impossible balance every time I stepped into the classroom.

Jake would never know any of this had happened.

Everyone would move on.

A knock interrupted my thoughts.

“Come in.”

Professor Morgan stepped inside carrying a folder.

“Sorry to interrupt.”

“You’re fine.”

“I just needed your signature on these.”

He placed the paperwork on my desk.

As I signed the last page, he glanced at my computer screen.

“Working through emails already?”

“Trying to.”

He laughed.

“They never end.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Morgan collected the papers.

“You’ll get used to it.”

“I hope so.”

After he left, I looked back at the unfinished email.

The cursor blinked patiently.

Waiting.

Instead of finishing it, I minimised the window and turned my attention to grading.

It lasted almost twenty minutes.

Then another notification appeared.

An updated academic report.

I opened it without much thought.

Attendance.

Assignment submissions.

Participation records.

The usual.

My eyes skimmed down the list until they landed on a familiar name.

Winters, Candace.

Attendance: 0%.

Assignments Outstanding: 3.

Discussion Participation: None.

I frowned.

She hadn’t submitted the first written response either.

That wasn’t like her From what I’d seen during the other lecturers’ reports, she’d been engaged. Prepared.

She had struck me as someone who cared about her grades.

Now she wasn’t showing up at all.

I stared at the screen longer than I should have.

Long enough that I became aware of the silence in my office.

Long enough that I realized I was trying to make sense of something that wasn’t mine to solve.

I closed the report.

Then opened it again.

Her name was still there.

The same missing attendance.

The same blank spaces where submissions should have been.

A slow breath escaped me.

This wasn’t about me.

Whatever was keeping her away could have nothing to do with the restaurant.

Maybe she was sick.

Maybe something had happened at home.

Maybe…

I stopped myself.

Speculation served no purpose.

If there was an issue, she knew the proper channels to follow.

She was an adult.

She could ask for help if she needed it.

My responsibility began and ended with treating her the same as every other student.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

The unfinished email was still sitting in my drafts when I reopened my laptop later that afternoon.

I read it from beginning to end.

Every sentence sounded reasonable.

Measured.

Professional.

No names.

No unnecessary details.

No indication that the request had anything to do with personal feelings.

Only a lecturer trying to resolve a potentially awkward academic situation.

I placed my fingers on the keyboard.

All I had to do was add one line.

One student’s name.

Then press send.

The problem would begin solving itself.

Instead, I thought about what that request actually meant.

It meant making a decision for Candace without speaking to her.

It meant assuming she wanted the transfer.

It meant using my position to quietly change the situation because it was easier for me.

That wasn’t professionalism.

It was avoidance.

Different from hers.

But avoidance all the same.

I highlighted the entire email.

For a second, my finger hovered over the keyboard.

Then I pressed Delete.

The blank screen stared back at me.

I closed the draft without saving.

The transfer request was gone before anyone else had the chance to read it.