The lecture hall still smelled of wet coats and the faint musk of old books. Rain had clung to the coats of students as they filed in, shaking droplets from their sleeves. Wooden desks, scuffed and etched with forgotten names, curved around the front podium like a half-moon. At the center of it all stood Professor Langston—gray-haired, sharp-eyed, and dressed in the same brown corduroy blazer he always wore.
"What makes language eternal?" Langston's voice rang out clear, steady, like the chime of a distant bell.
The class was barely listening.
In the back rows, two students were whispering about the party that night. Another group hunched over someone's phone, planning outfits. Laughter burst sporadically like bubbles in boiling water. But at the center of the second row, leaning forward slightly, was Andrew.
He didn't notice the noise. Or maybe he had learned how to tune it out entirely.
A page of notes sat before him—mostly scribbled lines of poetry and fragmented thoughts. He had drawn a square around the words: beauty does not beg. Beneath it, he had written: but it bleeds.
Langston's eyes scanned the room. "Andrew. What's the answer?"
Andrew blinked once, then looked up slowly. "Time doesn't forgive language. It only deepens its wounds. That's what makes it eternal."
Langston smiled faintly. "Go on."
Andrew closed his notebook, fingers resting on the cover as if to ground his thoughts. "When a poet writes something honest, it hurts more over time. Language doesn't just preserve—it haunts. We remember lines not because they soothe, but because they refuse to leave us."
There was a moment of silence. Kate, sitting a few seats away, glanced at him. She wasn't surprised by what he said, only how quietly he carried so much.
Langston nodded. "And what of metaphor?"
Kate raised her hand gently. Langston gestured for her to speak.
"Metaphor is how we lie to tell the truth," she said. "We use it because direct language would collapse under the weight of our feelings."
"Excellent," Langston said. "So then, what does the heart do when the truth is unbearable?"
Andrew answered without raising his hand. "It becomes a poet."
Kate's eyes flicked toward him. There it was again—that rawness just under the surface.
Langston let the moment settle. Then, he walked slowly to the window, staring at the grey skies outside.
"The party," he said abruptly. "I hear most of you are going."
The class laughed, tension broken. A few students whooped quietly, and someone shouted, "You coming, Professor?"
Langston didn't answer. Instead, he turned back, his voice steady.
"There's nothing wrong with celebration. But don't mistake noise for connection. Most poems are written not in moments of joy, but in silence. In aftermath."
The room quieted.
"I want a poem by Monday," he continued. "Not about love, but about what happens after love. The absence. The ache. Write not to impress—but to endure."
Chairs shifted. Someone groaned softly. Langston smiled, amused.
"Dismissed."
As the students gathered their things and shuffled out, Kate lingered. Andrew didn't move either. He watched Langston gather his notes.
"I liked what you said," Kate offered gently. "About the heart."
Andrew glanced at her. "It just came out."
"You say a lot of things that just come out and hit like scripture."
He gave a faint smile. "That's a bit dramatic."
"Poetry is dramatic."
Langston passed by them, pausing briefly. "Keep speaking the way you write, Andrew. The world needs more poets who bleed honestly."
Then he was gone, leaving only the soft creak of the door and the murmur of distant footsteps.
Kate and Andrew walked slowly down the empty hallway.
"Are you going?" she asked.
"To the party?"
She nodded.
Andrew looked ahead. The rain had started again, painting ghostly trails on the tall windows.
"No," he said. "Parties aren't made for people trying to forget things they never had."
Kate didn't respond. She only walked a little closer to him, their steps echoing through the quiet corridor.
Outside, the world continued—wet, grey, indifferent.
Inside, words lingered.
And somewhere in the folds of silence, a new poem was already beginning to form.
---
After class, Andrew lingered beneath the old archway outside the poetry hall, his coat drawn close. Kate caught up with him, shaking out her umbrella with a soft snap.
"Thought you'd vanish into the fog," she said.
"I was just thinking."
"About?"
He didn't answer right away. A student brushed past them, earbuds in, hood drawn. "You ever feel like... everyone else has somewhere to be, and we're the only ones just standing still?"
Kate smiled. "Constantly. But that's what makes us poets, remember?"
They started walking again, the wet stones underfoot slick and reflecting thin patches of cloud. A group of students passed them, laughing loudly, debating which wine to bring to the party.
Kate glanced sideways. "Do you hate them?"
"No." Andrew's voice was quiet. "I envy how lightly they walk through things. Like nothing matters enough to hold onto."
She tucked her hands into her sleeves. "Maybe that's their way of surviving."
"And this is mine."
They passed through the student gardens, rain speckling the stone benches and the rose hedges with shining beads. The poetry building stood behind them like a fortress of memory.
Kate stopped. "Are you writing again?"
"Trying."
"I'd like to read something new."
Andrew hesitated, then reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small notebook, slightly damp, and handed it to her. "It's a mess."
She opened to a page halfway through. Scrawled in faded ink were the lines:
I saw her in raindrops / never falling the same way twice / but always too brief to hold.
Kate closed the book softly. "You're cruel, you know. In the most beautiful way."
"Poetry isn't kind."
"No. But it's honest."
They stood in the shelter of the courtyard arch for a long moment, neither speaking, both knowing there was more beneath the surface of everything they'd said.
Then Kate looked at him. "Will you walk me back to my dorm?"
Andrew nodded. "Yeah."
And together, they stepped into the rain again.