It’s easier now.
And harder.
We’ve gone back to how we were before the bridge, before the distance. Teacher and student, voices tangled only through our classroom discussions. Academic and restrained, debating and analyzing like we used to.
Last week, he challenged my interpretation ofInferno, saying Dante’s descent wasn’t just about moral consequence but about the intimacy of self-knowledge and the willingness to confront the parts of yourself that burn.
I almost told him that he’d been my favorite kind of hell for weeks.
Instead, I smiled and praised him, falling for him a littleharder when he lit up from it.
It’s been hell, pretending there’s nothing more beneath our words.
Jackson is brilliant in ways that are obvious and in ways that still surprise me. This week, we’ve moved on toThe Odyssey, discussing the themes of homecoming and self-restraint. About how long absence reshapes what we love.
When he argued that Odysseus isn’t really trying to return home at all, that every trial is an excuse to delay and to see who he is when no one’s watching, it hit closer to home than I’d like to admit.
Like that’s what I’ve been doing for the past five years.
And the moment I finally decided it was enough was when I had to face the monster I was becoming. When I kissed him to keep him from walking away.
I threatened to throw Jackson off the same bridge my family died at. I’m glad he forgives me because I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself.
One thing Ihavedone for myself is let go of my suspicions, which was easier after hearing the way he talked about his father. Despite the fact he followed me that night, I think it was only curiosity that drove him. What we’ve shared is too real to believe any part of it could be fabricated.
And I want it too badly to fuck up again.
So I stay where I’m supposed to. I make sure the space between us remains professional and appropriate.
But I don’t lie to myself.
I miss him terribly.
Three weeks. That’s all.
Just three more weeks of pretending I can’t still taste him when I say his name.
The afternoon light filters throughthe high windows of Old Main, filling the building with pale yellow. The hallways are quieter this late in the day, faint student chatter echoing from the other floors.
I’ve just dismissed my last class of the day, gathering all my notes so I can head to my office for a couple hours. The room still smells faintly of coffee and chalk dust. Jackson lingered behind after the lecture, packing his things into his bag slower than usual, offering a small, polite smile before leaving.
It’s been a month of those quiet, careful smiles.
One month down. Three weeks to go.
Leaving my classroom, I step into the corridor, my footsteps hollow against the old wood. Halfway to my office, I spot Jackson down the hall, knocking on the open door of Professor Grant’s office.
I pause as I watch him step inside.
Peering behind me, I see two students exiting the building and another disappearing into the stairwell. Moving forward, I see that Richard’s door is left slightly ajar. Keeping my back to the wall, I approach closer as voices carry out into the hallway.
“…just concerned, Jackson. Your grades are usually some of the strongest in the department, but this semester, they’ve been a bit…well, erratic.”
Through the crack, I see Jackson sitting across from the head of our department, posture tense but polite, hands folded tightly in his lap. His knee bounces once, betraying nerves he’s trying to suppress.
“I’ve been working through some stuff.” Jackson shifts, staring down at his hands. “But I’ve been trying to get back on track.”
Richard leans back in his chair, framed by the glow of his desk lamp. His voice carries that practiced warmth, the kind that passes for kindness until you realize it’s just temperature control.
