The following Monday, Sierra arrived early. The seminar room was smaller than her regular lecture hall—just a circle of chairs, a whiteboard, and sunlight streaming through half-open blinds. The air smelled faintly of coffee and ink. It felt quieter here, more serious.
She took a seat by the window, setting her notebook on her lap, trying to steady her racing heart. She wasn't sure why she was this nervous. It wasn't like she hadn't spoken to him before—but this was different. This wasn't a classroom of forty students. It was five.
One by one, the others trickled in. A few upperclassmen she didn't know nodded politely before sitting down. Then, the room shifted—soft footsteps, a low murmur, and there he was.
Professor Blackwood stepped inside, a stack of papers in one hand, his usual composure in place. "Good afternoon, everyone," he said.
His gaze swept briefly across the room before landing, almost inevitably, on her. "Glad you could make it, Sierra."
Her heart gave a small leap. "Thank you for inviting me," she said, smiling nervously.
He nodded once, then turned to the whiteboard. "Today, we'll discuss observational bias and ethical storytelling. This group will focus on analyzing how narratives shape perception—particularly in modern media spaces. You'll each choose a topic to research independently, and we'll meet weekly to review progress."
As he spoke, Sierra took notes quickly. His voice was steady, calm, but something about hearing it in such a small room made it feel… closer.
Halfway through the session, he asked, "Sierra, since this concept ties closely to your last presentation—how do you think observation affects truth in storytelling?"
Sierra froze for a second. Five pairs of eyes turned toward her. She twirled her pen, thinking. "I think… observation is powerful. But it's also dangerous. Because once you notice something, you can't really unsee it. It changes how you interpret everything else."
There was a pause, then Professor Blackwood's expression softened just slightly. "Well said," he murmured. "That's a thoughtful point."
Her chest tightened in a way she didn't expect. Every word of praise from him felt heavier than it should.
By the time the meeting ended, Sierra lingered again, packing her things slowly. The other students drifted out, chatting quietly. When she realized they were the only two left, she stood, unsure whether to say goodbye or stay quiet.
"Do you enjoy this kind of work?" he asked, not looking up from his papers.
She blinked, caught off guard. "I do," she said honestly. "It feels like… I'm learning to see things differently. It's not just research—it's like understanding how people think."
He looked up then, and their eyes met for a moment too long. "That's exactly what makes a good researcher," he said quietly.
Sierra smiled, feeling her pulse race. "Then I'll keep trying to be one."
He hesitated before replying, almost as if weighing his words. "You already are."
Her breath hitched softly, but before she could respond, he turned away, breaking the moment. "Good work today, Sierra. See you next week."
She nodded quickly, clutching her notebook to her chest as she left the room.
Outside, the campus breeze brushed against her skin, and she exhaled, realizing she'd been holding her breath. Everything about him—his calm tone, his quiet encouragement, the way his gaze lingered for just a second too long—stayed with her.
And though she told herself it was just admiration, something deeper had started to stir.
Back inside, Professor Blackwood stood at the window, watching the courtyard below. Sierra's figure appeared briefly—bright, animated, full of motion as she greeted her friends.
He turned away, exhaling quietly. He shouldn't notice. He knew that. But something about her reminded him of everything he had once forgotten—lightness, warmth, curiosity.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and muttered under his breath, "Focus, Blackwood."
But even as he returned to his notes, her voice lingered in his mind—the way she'd said, "Once you notice something, you can't unsee it."
And he realized, maybe she was right.