A Student's Obsession Novels & Stories

Angioletto's Pov It is considered a deformity to be fixated on a particular person or object. It is a deformity to be narrow minded. It is a deformity to only find psychological fulfillment from just one person. My therapist had so many words to describe my obsessive tendencies. But right now, all I want is to live with that deformity for the rest of my life. My new obsession. A beauty to behold. From the moment I set eyes on her, from dusk to dawn, every day since I’ve had her under my care, she has been imprinted in my DNA.

"That's enough! I'll just take a rest here! Later, when I'm refreshed, I'll go home." Then, they closed their eyes to relax their brains while talking about things in their lives, starting with Vega, who felt dizzy with the naughty students in Alberto's class, Professor Jose's meeting, the students' dropping grades, the student who doesn't want to pay attention to him in class, etc. "I'm so dizzy, honey! I don't know why the students at your college hate me? They’re so stubborn. They don't want to listen to me in class," Vega explained, explaining what was making her dizzy.

************************* This story is about Student and Teacher relationship. Synopsis A Professor named John Gatchalian is secretly obsessed with his student named Myraquel Gonzaga. Prof. John intentionally dropped Myraquel grades. The only way she can pass and graduate is to have sex with her Professor.

"It's crowded and there's no system and you can't find anything without asking." "I'll tolerate it," I said. "For you." She smiled at the wall. The soft one. "Your turn," I said. "Ask me something." She thought about it. "What did you want to be," she said. "When you were little. Before any of this was decided." I thought about being six years old before the Tuesday. Before everything became about surviving and building and not being helpless. "An astronaut," I said. She turned to look at me. "I'm serious," I said. "I was obsessed. I had books about it. I made Dominic read them to me." I paused. "Then our parents left and Dominic needed me to help hold things together and somewhere in there

Next week, though? Next week, I'm going to push harder. And eventually, he's going to break. They always do. Author's Note to Reader (Sloane's voice) You think I'm obsessed. You're right. You think this is going to end badly. You're probably right about that too. But here's the thing about obsession—it feels good. It feels like purpose. Like having something to wake up for. And yeah, maybe I'm fucking with his head. Maybe I'm being manipulative and selfish and destructive. But I'm nineteen. Isn't that what nineteen-year-olds do? Besides, he's the adult. He's the professional. If he really wanted me to stop, he'd terminate our sessions. Send me to someone else. But he hasn't. And that tells m

9Maya. I’d never been like this before. Not with anyone. Not with myself. Obsession felt like a sickness, something I couldn’t shake, something that turned my days into endless waiting, my nights into hours spent staring at the ceiling, aching and empty and full of wild, helpless want.

Engaged. Noah hadn't mentioned that, engagement was a big and a huge step, and of course my heart pounded, I wanted to not think too much about it, but I saw myself bringing out my phone to do my research about it, I have never been the person to g****e a person or believe everything on Wikipedia, but he hadn’t mentioned this and I wanted to know why. I was on the kitchen counter, sipping on my tea when the picture of a younger Noah and a woman popped up on a blog.

“Now? I probably drink until I forget. Or until I hate him enough to stop caring.” “That doesn’t sound healthy.” I let the silence settle between us. The bar’s dim lights painted shadows on the floor, and my buzz was just strong enough to make everything blur at the edges. I leaned forward again, fingers toying with the condensation on my glass. “You ever get so obsessed with someone,” I murmured, “that it’s not even about them anymore? It’s about how they make you feel. How they pull out the ugliest parts of you, and you still keep crawling back like a sick little dog looking for scraps.”