The door had barely clicked shut when Jessica forced herself back to the familiar, bracing order of her work. Her hands still trembled as she shuffled Aizawa's papers into a neat stack, willing her pulse to slow, pressing her knees together beneath the desk in a silent bid for composure. But the air had changed. Sunlight slanted lower across the floor, and each ordinary task felt as if it echoed that private charge: every click of the keyboard, every email reply, even the rhythmic tap of her pen against the annotated novels that now bore the faint warmth of his hands.
Her phone vibrated—a gentle reminder: next appointment, next face, another mask. A brisk knock sounded, then the door creaked open to reveal the sharp-tongued girl from her Modern Literature seminar. The student's uniform was immaculate, every line in place, her posture as stiff and deliberate as her kanji, but there was a hungry spark in her eyes as she slid an essay across the desk.
They spoke for ten minutes about Dostoevsky, then feminism, then Japanese poetry, their voices weaving English and Japanese until Jessica's mind blurred from the effort of never slipping, never letting the language of her own longing creep in. The girl's wit was a shield, but her gaze lingered on Jessica's hands, her mouth, the gentle fall of her hair. There was admiration there—something bright and dangerous, the kind of fascination that blurred the line between mentor and muse.
Jessica smiled, careful and distant, offering only measured encouragement. She answered questions with gentle precision, always aware of the boundaries: her own authority, the girl's youth, the strict lines of expectation that hemmed them both. When the student left, bowing low and smiling shyly, Jessica felt the warmth of pride, tinged with the ache of something forbidden—an unspoken connection, alive and unspent.
Her next appointment arrived late: the brooding rugby player, all broad shoulders and haunted eyes, who rarely spoke above a murmur. He fidgeted in the small chair, his knees splayed wide, his uniform a little askew. His questions, as usual, began with Shakespeare but drifted quickly to more personal territory—loneliness, family, the difficulty of fitting in. Jessica kept her replies gentle, professional, never encouraging more than was safe, but she saw the way he watched her, how his eyes lingered on the curve of her throat or the brush of her hair against her cheek.
Their meeting ended with a bowed head and a muttered "thank you," and as he left, Jessica found a note, neatly folded, tucked beneath the stack of books: "Thank you for being kind to me, Sensei." The kanji was careful, almost trembling. The words warmed her, but a flicker of guilt trailed close behind. How easily they admired her—how easily they projected onto her something she wasn't sure she could ever be. The untouchable, the perfect, the distant object of their longing and need.
The afternoon deepened, shadows slipping across her desk as the faculty corridor emptied. Jessica pressed the note between the pages of her diary, a token of her small impact and the persistent ache of being apart—adored and admired, but never truly seen, never quite at home. The hum of voices in the hall faded to nothing, and for a moment she let herself drift, heart heavy with both gratitude and the sharp, almost pleasurable sting of her own isolation.