Prof believed in the absolute certainty of logic. So when he found a note taped to his locker—a geometrically perfect, hand-drawn hexagon containing a precise appointment time, room number, and the words, "Mandatory Geometry Review—Don't Be Late"—he knew he had been outmaneuvered. The note was from Sonia.
He found her exactly where the hexagon directed him: a forgotten, brightly lit classroom usually reserved for detention, now bathed in the late afternoon sun. She was sitting at a large oak table, two textbooks open, and a stack of color-coded flashcards waiting.
"You're thirty seconds late, Leo," Sonia announced, looking up from highlighting a theorem. She smiled, but the tone was all business. "I calculated your optimal arrival time based on your class schedule and observed walking pace. Your efficiency is slipping."
Prof tossed his backpack onto the floor with a little more force than necessary. "This isn't mandatory. I have a 98% in this class. I don't need a review, and I certainly don't need to be manipulated by geometric intimidation."
"You have a 98% because you refuse to engage with the 'why' behind the formulas," she countered, placing a flashcard down. "You treat Geometry like a computation tool, not an architectural blueprint. The point of this session isn't to raise your grade; it's to raise your perspective. And besides," she leaned forward conspiratorially, "I need a 100 on the final, and you're the best tutor money can't buy. Consider this a pro-bono opportunity for your superior intellect."
Prof stared at her. She was impossible to categorize. She wasn't flattering him to get close, nor was she challenging him aggressively. She was simply stating the facts, mixed with a casual confidence that was completely disarming. He reluctantly pulled out a chair.
"Fine. But we are only covering proofs. No tangents about my 'perspective.'"
They started working. Prof, naturally, was brilliant. He could visualize the planes and angles in three dimensions, solving complex spatial problems in seconds. But Sonia didn't want the answer; she wanted the argument. She forced him to slow down, to explain the recursive logic of each step, and to admit where the proof could potentially break down.
"Wait, you just jumped from the Pythagorean theorem to similar triangles," she noted, pointing with her pen. "It's logically sound, but you skipped the critical transition point. You're assuming the reader knows your shorthand."
"If the reader can't follow basic Euclidean progression, they shouldn't be in advanced placement," Prof snapped, running a hand through his hair.
"The reader isn't a computer, Leo. They're a human being," Sonia said softly. "You skip the steps because you've built a wall between yourself and everyone else. You process everything internally, but if you want anyone to understand your genius—or you—you have to show them the steps."
The air in the room seemed to cool. That was too close. She was always too close.
"You're reading too much into a rhombus," Prof said, his voice flat.
"Am I?" she challenged, her hazel eyes holding his. "You solve problems by finding the hidden connections. But you're terrified of finding connections with people. You think if you skip the steps of connection—like trust, like vulnerability—you won't get hurt when the formula inevitably collapses."
The words struck him with the precise force of a well-aimed projectile. He didn't have a quick, cynical comeback ready. He felt the familiar, hot wave of panic—the panic that always preceded the memory of Maria's final, gentle touch. He stood abruptly, knocking his chair back a few inches.
"The session is over," he announced, grabbing his bag. "The required information has been transferred. Your grade is secure. You have achieved optimal benefit."
He was halfway to the door when Sonia spoke again, her voice quiet but clear.
"You're right. The session is over. And you know why I didn't push when you got angry just now?"
Prof paused, his hand on the doorknob.
"Because for the last thirty minutes, you weren't 'Prof,'" she continued. "You were just Leo. The guy who explains things beautifully when he forgets to be guarded. That's enough progress for one day. We can resume the defensive posturing tomorrow."
He didn't respond. He simply walked out, the geometric note still taped on his locker feeling less like a trap and more like a map. He hadn't just taught her geometry; he had revealed a small piece of the blueprint of himself, and she had seen it. And she hadn't run away.