Patient Notes
That night, I sat at my desk, journal open, pen tapping against the page.
I wasn't the type to write poetry, or even to confess feelings. My journals had been dry collections of class notes, reminders, and deadlines for years. But tonight… my thoughts needed somewhere to go before they exploded.
I stared at the blank page for a long moment, hands poised with pen, mind already crowded. Finally, I wrote:
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, hard enough to leave faint indents on the page.
Why did he always get under my skin?
I'd dealt with worse. Way worse. Arrogant people, overconfident men, manipulators who thought they could push their way through life on charm alone.
But him?
He was intentional. Every glance. Every step closer. Every word designed to test my patience, to see if I would crack.
And the worst part?
I hadn't. Not completely.
But I was close. Too close.
I flipped to a fresh page, pen hovering for a few seconds, indecision weighing down my hand. Then I wrote, haltingly:
> He touched my hair today. Just brushed it back like it was normal.
It wasn't.
It didn't feel normal.
It felt like—
I scratched the whole line out, violently, letting the pen bleed black ink across the paper.
No. I wasn't allowed to feel that way.
I closed the journal and shoved it in my drawer, as though tucking it away could somehow lock my thoughts in too.
But the silence in my room made it louder. Louder than the tapping of the rain against my window. Louder than my own heartbeat, which seemed to echo in every corner.
I picked up my phone, hoping the device might serve as a barrier. Opened the voice memo app. Hit record.
"Patient notes. Female. Psychology student. Presents with signs of acute frustration caused by a male trigger."
I paused, listening to the quiet click of the recording. My thumb hovered above the screen, hesitant.
"Symptoms include insomnia, increased heart rate when exposed to tall figures in black, and compulsive sarcasm as a defense mechanism."
I sighed, soft and tired.
"Recommended treatment: avoidance."
Another pause. I looked at the ceiling, tracing imaginary patterns on the plaster.
"…unlikely to work."
I laughed quietly, bitter and defeated, then deleted the recording before I could embarrass myself further.
Of course. Avoidance never worked with him.
It was as if he existed specifically to bypass my defenses.
And then, as if summoned by my own inability to shut him out, my phone buzzed.
Ping.
I froze. Heart stuttered.
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.
I didn't reply. My thumb hovered for a long, indecisive second. Part of me wanted to fire back with every sarcastic insult I could conjure, but another part… a smaller, embarrassingly honest part… wanted to say yes. To meet him. To hear him laugh again, to see the smirk curl across his lips.
I didn't respond. Didn't block him either.
I set the phone aside and rubbed at my temples, trying to force the thought of him out. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling, imagining his brown shirt against the warm library light. The one he wore that day—the one I secretly couldn't stop thinking about.
> Why did I notice the color? Why that shirt?
I closed my eyes. His voice, playful and teasing, echoed in my head:
> "You can try to avoid me, but I don't do easily avoided things."
I shook my head. No. I wouldn't let him invade my thoughts. Not like this.
But then my mind wandered. What if… what if he notices when I blush?
I groaned softly. Stop it. Stop thinking about him.
Yet I couldn't.
The journal beckoned again. I pulled it out, flipping past the scratched-out line about his hair. My pen hovered. My chest ached, racing as I wrote:
> Observed: Increased heartbeat. Increased awareness. Flustered when professor within line of sight. No defense mechanism sufficient.
I paused, pen trembling.
> Subject demonstrates involuntary attraction to said professor despite conscious protests.
I underlined despite conscious protests, forcing myself to be clinical. Scientific. Detached.
And yet, I couldn't stop the faint memory of him catching me before I fell in the library—the warmth of his chest, the pressure of his hands at my waist, the smirk that both infuriated and confused me.
I rubbed my eyes.
I couldn't write it down. Not the part where my heart had stuttered. Not the part where I'd almost—almost—leaned closer.
I set the pen down. Opened the window slightly, letting in the cool night air. It did nothing to calm me. The wind didn't chase him out of my mind.
Then my phone buzzed again. I jumped.
Unknown Number
Don't make me wait. Office hours. Tomorrow. I expect you. And you'd better be on time… or else.
I groaned, burying my face in my hands.
> Or else… what?
I could practically hear him, leaning against the library table, smirk teasing, eyes locked on me like he'd already claimed the moment in advance.
I slid to the floor, legs tucked beneath me, glasses crooked, messy bun falling loose. My journal lay open on the carpet beside me, pen abandoned. I knew the truth: he had already invaded my thoughts, my night, my very space.
And yet… I couldn't stop thinking about the smirk, the brown shirt, the teasing voice, the way he claimed moments without permission.
I shivered, equal parts irritation and… something else.
> He's impossible.
I whispered it to myself, pressing the phone to my chest.
> And I'm not sure I mind.
Ughh,This man driving me insane.
Dear lord,help me through it.
I don't want any scandal in university or about my personality.