Chapter Five: Diagnosis Me Later
The rain had stopped, leaving the night outside my window still and heavy. The silence in my small room was a physical weight. I sat at my desk, journal open, a pen held loosely between my fingers. It wasn't a diary, not really. It was a log. A place for observations, for compartmentalizing the chaos of the world into neat, analyzable boxes.
Tonight, the chaos was internal, and it refused to be contained.
I stared at the blank page, the white expanse accusing in the lamplight. My thoughts, usually orderly, swarmed like agitated bees. With a slow, deliberate motion, I began to write.
Entry: Subject – Professor
Diagnosis – Chronic Disruptor of Peace of Mind
Symptoms include:
– Delusions of charm
– Excessive proximity
– Compulsive smirking
– Highly contagious narcissism
I underlined that last part twice, the nib of the pen pressing deep into the paper. Contagious. That was the problem. I felt infected. My usual immunity to arrogance, my clinical detachment from attractive men who knew it—it had all failed. Spectacularly.
Why him?
I'd constructed walls for a reason. Years of practice. Yet he treated them not as obstacles to scale, but as mere suggestions in the air, stepping through with an infuriating, casual grace. Every glance was a calculated probe. Every step closer was a test of my personal space, my composure. Every word was a precisely thrown stone meant to ripple the surface of my calm.
And the most alarming symptom of all? My own reaction. The way my breath hitched. The way my skin prickled with awareness. The way my mind replayed every interaction on a loop, analyzing his tone, his expression, the exact distance he chose to stand from me.
I flipped to a fresh page. The pen hovered, trembling slightly. I forced it down.
He touched my hair today. Just brushed it back like it was normal.
It wasn't.
It didn't feel normal.
It felt like—
The pen skidded violently across the page, a thick, black scar of ink obliterating the sentence. No. That line of thought was forbidden. It led to a diagnosis I was not prepared to confirm. I slammed the journal shut and shoved it into the desk drawer, turning the key with a definitive click. As if locking away the evidence could lock away the truth.
But the silence grew louder. It amplified the memory of his touch—not possessive, but startlingly gentle—and the scent of him that had lingered in my space after he'd caught me. I picked up my phone, a modern substitute for a therapist's couch. I opened the voice memo app and pressed record, my voice clinical and low in the quiet room.
"Patient notes. Female. Psychology student. Presents with signs of acute frustration caused by a male trigger."
I paused, the digital timeline blinking steadily.
"Symptoms include insomnia, increased heart rate when exposed to tall figures in dark colors, and compulsive sarcasm as a primary defense mechanism."
A weary sigh escaped me, captured by the microphone.
"Recommended treatment: strict avoidance."
Another pause. I stared at the ceiling, its blankness offering no solutions.
"…Prognosis for successful treatment: poor."
A short, humorless laugh. I stopped the recording and deleted it, erasing the audible proof of my confusion.
Avoidance was a theoretical solution. With him, it was a fantasy. He was a variable that inserted itself into every equation.
As if my thoughts had sent out a beacon, my phone buzzed on the wooden desk.
Ping.
A jolt, sharp and electric, shot through me. My heart stuttered, then hammered against my ribs.
Unknown Number
Still not over that missed office hour. You owe me. Tomorrow. Same time.
Also. You looked cute annoyed today. Just thought you should know. :)
I stared at the screen, the glow lighting my face in the dark room. The casual command. The blatant, teasing compliment. It was an invasion, a bypass of every professional and personal boundary. My thumb hovered over the keypad. A dozen sharp retorts formed and dissolved. Beneath the outrage, a treacherous, whisper-thin thread of warmth unspooled. He noticed. He's thinking about it, too.
I didn't reply. I also didn't block the number. The phone sat there, a silent, potent symbol of my conflicted inertia.
Pushing away from the desk, I rubbed my temples. I leaned back, eyes closed, but the darkness behind my lids only provided a better canvas. Him, leaning against the bookshelf in that brown shirt, the library light turning the linen to gold. The precise shade of it, the way it fell across his shoulders… Why had I cataloged such an irrelevant detail?
His voice, a phantom in my memory, low and sure:
"You can try to avoid me, but I don't do easily avoided things."
A shiver traced my spine. It wasn't a boast. It was a statement of fact, and I was living proof.
What if he notices when I blush? The thought was mortifying. I was a psychology student; I was supposed to understand mechanisms, not become a victim of them.
Driven by a need to exert control, I retrieved the journal from its drawer. Flipping past the inked-out confession, I forced my hand to move in clean, analytical strokes.
Observed: Increased somatic response (tachycardia, vasodilation leading to facial flushing) upon visual or proximal exposure to subject. Previously effective defense mechanisms (sarcasm, avoidance) demonstrating significantly reduced efficacy.
I paused, my breath shallow. The clinical language was a shield, but the truth bled through.
Hypothesis: Subject may be eliciting an involuntary attraction response, persisting despite conscious cognitive dissonance and active resistance.
Involuntary attraction. There it was. The diagnosis I'd been avoiding. I underlined despite conscious cognitive dissonance, the pen digging into the paper as if to cement the conflict.
The memory surged, unbidden: the firm pressure of his hands on my waist, the solid warmth of his chest against my back, the way the world had narrowed to that point of contact. The safety of it, tangled with the sheer danger.
I put the pen down, its clatter loud in the silence. Rising, I opened the window, desperate for a cool, cleansing breeze. The night air drifted in, but it carried no relief, only the distant smell of damp earth. It did nothing to dispel the scent of sandalwood and coffee that seemed imprinted in my mind.
Buzz.
The phone vibrated again, a violent little shudder on the wood. I flinched.
Unknown Number
Don't make me wait. Office hours. Tomorrow. I expect you. And you'd better be on time… or else.
I sank to the floor, my back against the side of the bed, and buried my face in my hands. A groan of sheer frustration muffled against my palms.
Or else what?
His voice filled my head, not as a memory but as a live presence—low, teasing, impregnated with unspoken promise and consequence. I could see the smirk, the challenging glint in his eyes that already knew he'd won this round simply by daring to send the text.
I slid fully to the carpet, legs folding beneath me. My glasses sat crookedly on my nose; the messy bun had fully surrendered, strands of hair brushing my cheeks. The journal lay open beside me, its clinical notes a pathetic counterpoint to the reality of me curled on the floor, undone by a text message.
The truth, cold and clear, settled in the pit of my stomach. He wasn't just in my space or my thoughts. He was in my routines, my quiet moments, my attempts at self-analysis. He had mapped the terrain of my reactions and was now walking through it at his leisure.
A shiver ran through me—a complex cocktail of intense irritation and a thrilling, terrifying anticipation.
He's impossible, I thought, the words a silent mantra.
My hand closed around the phone, its screen dark now. I pressed it to my chest, feeling the frantic beat of my heart against the cool glass.
And I'm not sure I mind.
The admission, silent and shameful, hung in the dark room.
Ugh. This man is driving me insane.
Dear lord, help me through it.
I don't want any scandal at the university or about my personality.
The prayer was a whisper, a plea for the strength to rebuild the walls he was so effortlessly dismantling, brick by tantalizing brick.