Elena considered canceling office hours.
She stood outside her office, hand hovering near the door handle, keys cool against her palm. The corridor was quiet, most students already filtered out for the afternoon. Fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead.
It would be reasonable, she told herself.
I have papers to grade. Meetings to prepare for.
She unlocked the door anyway.
The office was small but orderly. Bookshelves lined one wall, spines worn and familiar, a lifetime of reading pressing in gently from all sides. Her desk sat near the window, sunlight spilling across its surface in pale bands.
Elena set her bag down. She straightened a stack of papers that didn't need straightening.
You are not avoiding your own schedule, she reminded herself. That would imply something worth avoiding.
At exactly fourteen hundred hours, there was a soft knock.
Her breath stilled.
"Come in," she said.
Mara Keller stepped inside.
She looked much the same as she had in class—dark sweater, sleeves pulled down over her hands—but something about the smaller space sharpened her presence. The office made proximity unavoidable. The air felt closer.
"Professor Weiss," Mara said, polite, measured.
Elena gestured toward the chair across from her desk. "Please."
Mara sat.
Elena did as well this time, deliberately, placing the desk firmly between them.
Good, she thought. This is correct.
"What can I help you with?" Elena asked.
Mara glanced down at the notebook in her lap, fingers tightening briefly around its edges.
"I wanted to clarify the expectations for the upcoming paper," she said. "The section on narrative authority."
Elena nodded, relieved.
She explained. Thoroughly. Professionally. She kept her tone neutral, her posture composed. She did not look at Mara's hands. She did not notice the way Mara leaned forward slightly as she listened.
When she finished, Mara nodded.
"That makes sense," she said. "Thank you."
She didn't stand.
Instead, she hesitated—just enough for Elena to feel it.
"There was something else," Mara added quietly.
Elena's fingers curled against the edge of her desk.
"Yes?"
Mara looked up.
Her gaze was steady, thoughtful, not challenging—but not deferential either. It felt like being examined gently, carefully, as if Mara were weighing whether a question was allowed to exist.
"You said in lecture that people believe what fits the life they've already built," Mara said. "Do you think that's always a conscious choice?"
The question landed differently here, in the quiet of Elena's office.
Elena paused.
"I think," she said slowly, "most people don't realize they're choosing at all."
Mara nodded, absorbing that.
"And when they do realize?" she asked.
Elena met her gaze—just briefly.
"Then they're responsible for what they do with that knowledge."
Mara's lips curved faintly, not quite a smile.
"That sounds heavy."
"It can be," Elena replied.
Silence settled between them.
Not awkward. Not empty.
Weighted.
Elena became acutely aware of the desk, of the careful distance she had placed between them. Of how close that distance would feel if the desk weren't there.
She stood.
"I think that's all we have time for today," she said gently. Firmly.
Mara looked up at her, surprised—but she didn't argue.
"Of course," she said, standing as well.
For a moment, they were too close. The edge of the desk no longer a barrier, just an object behind them. Elena could see the faint freckles across Mara's nose. The concentration still lingering in her eyes.
Mara stepped back first.
"Thank you for your time," she said.
"You're welcome," Elena replied.
Mara turned and left, the door closing softly behind her.
Elena remained standing long after the sound of footsteps faded.
She pressed her hands flat against the desk, grounding herself, breathing carefully.
That was appropriate, she told herself.
That was nothing.
And yet, her pulse took longer than usual to slow.
Elena reached for her phone, hesitated, then opened her calendar.
Without giving herself time to reconsider, she marked the next office hours slot as cancelled.
The relief that followed was immediate—and deeply unsettling.