A few students chuckle nervously. I don’t.
When he glances up again, his eyes catch mine. “Mr. Ellis has already found himself consumed in this very lecture hall, isn’t that right?”
Soft laughter passes through the room. It’s a small class, maybe only forty or so other students, but my face still flames with an embarrassing heat.
He doesn’t smile. That’s not what I’d call it. There’s the faintest curve at the edge of his mouth, a knife’s edge of amusement. “Don’t worry. Curiosity is one of the better sins to have in academia.”
I’ve never gained a reputation the first day of class, and I’m not sure I like it. I’ve always been a good student. Respectful. Motivated. I have a feeling I might’ve gotten off on the wrong foot with Professor Kendall.
Fortunately, he moves his attention elsewhere and starts briefly going over the syllabus.
“This class will be a survey of world literature spanning from the ancient world through the eighteenth century. As you can tell by our schedule, we’ll be jumping around a bit chronologically, starting with Goethe’sFaust.”
We were already supposed to have done some reading before the first class—of course, I did—so he jumps right into discussing the text. As he does, his cadence is hypnotic. It’s like he’s not just teaching the story of a man who sold his soul for knowledge. He’s warning us. Every sentence is layered with something deeper.
Halfway through the lecture, I realize I’ve stopped taking notes, too drawn in by his passionate speech. It’s the kind of lecture that makes you forget you’re sitting in a classroom but also the kind that makes you aware of every breath you take.
His gaze eventually finds mine again. “You look like you have something to say, Mr. Ellis.”
I jolt slightly, picking my pen back up off the desk. I’ve always preferred taking notes by hand instead of on a laptop like most of the other students in the room.
“Uh, no, sir.”
“You should,” he says, almost gently. “You’re going to have to if you want to pass this class.Faustonly makes sense when you ask what the cost of knowing too much really is.”
My heart pounds uncomfortably in my chest, but the words come out before I can stop them. “Maybe it’s not the knowing that costs so much. Maybe it’s what it does to you. The guilt. The part where you can’t unsee what you’ve learned.”
Something flickers behind his expression. Approval. Maybe interest. But it’s gone as quickly as it appears.
“That’s one interpretation,” he says. “Though I’d argue that Mephistopheles doesn’t trade in guilt. He trades in desire.”
The worddesirehangs differently in the air. Heavier. Sharper. Like that click of the door or the spike of my heartbeat.
“Maybe those two things aren’t all that mutually exclusive,” I respond, having to try hard to keep my voice steady. “If you want something badly enough, guilt’s just the echo that comes after.”
A murmur runs through the class, a few heads turning. A part of me already wishes I could take the words back. But Professor Kendall doesn’t look away. He studies me for a beat too long, then nods once.
“You might be surprised how often that turns out to be true.”
His eyes remain locked with mine a moment longer before he returns to teaching.
I don’t know if he means to make himself a riddle, but by the end of the class, it becomes clear that he was right about one thing.
I’m already consumed.
By his passion for literature or by the dark shroud of his mystery, I’m not quite sure yet.
The first month of thesemester has flown by. I’m grateful for it because I’m afraid of what happens when time creeps too slowly.
When it does, that’s when the memories start to fill the quiet—faces and voices that claw their way into the edges of my thoughts when I least want them to. I’ve gotten good at keeping my hands busy, my mind even busier. If I can fill every hour with lectures, grading, and the background hum of conversation, there’s less room for ghosts to slip in.
But it turns out I didn’t have anything to be frightened of after all.
Since finding him alone in my classroom that night after the first day back, Jackson hasn’t given me any more reasons to be suspicious of him. He’s been an exceptional student. Once he got past the nerves he clearly had around me—not that I blame him or anyone else—he started speaking up during lectures more, proving just what a brilliant mind and a passionate drive he has.
Knowing that now, my past apprehensiveness feels ridiculous.
I might also feel a bit guilty for picking on him during that first class, but he’s seemed to have let it go. We’ve struck up agood rapport, and it’s refreshing to have someone who shares my love for literature as well as challenges me.
