College was louder at night.
The campus changed after sunset, less structured, less academic, more alive. Music drifted from dorm windows. Laughter echoed down hallways. Someone was always arguing about something pointless. Someone was always falling in love.
Or pretending to.
I tried to let myself fall into it.
That Friday night, Maya dragged me to a dorm mixer on the second floor of West Hall. The hallway lights were dim, fairy lights strung across doorframes like an aesthetic attempt at chaos control. Someone had set up speakers in the common room. The bass thumped through the floor.
"Tonight," Maya declared, grabbing my wrist, "you are not thinking about him."
"I'm not thinking about him," I lied.
Tessa snorted. "You were thinking about him while brushing your teeth."
"That's because you wouldn't stop talking about him."
"Exactly."
They both laughed.
I forced a smile and let them pull me into the crowd.
It should have been easy to get distracted.
There were boys everywhere, tall ones, funny ones, too confident ones. A junior from engineering tried to hand me a drink and winked like he practiced that expression in a mirror.
I almost laughed.
Almost.
But my mind kept drifting.
Not to the bar.
Not to that night.
To class.
To the way Professor Vale tilted his head when someone gave a thoughtful answer. To the way his smile came easily, but never stayed long enough to feel real. To the way he sometimes looked at the window instead of the students, like he was remembering something none of us could see.
"Dance," Maya commanded, shoving me toward the center of the room.
The music was loud enough to rattle my ribs. Bodies moved too close. Hands brushed. Heat pressed from every direction.
For a moment, just a moment, I let go.
I laughed.
I spun.
I felt light.
And then I saw him.
Not in the room.
But in my head.
Standing in the art studio. Leaning against a table, watching without expression.
The image hit so sharply I almost stumbled.
He would hate this, I thought suddenly.
The noise. The chaos. The careless energy.
Or maybe he'd stand at the edge and smile at it like he smiled at everything, amused but untouched.
"You disappeared again," Tessa said, catching my arm.
"I'm here."
"You're not."
I looked at her.
She lowered her voice slightly. "You know he's just a man, right?"
I rolled my eyes. "You're the one who calls him illegal."
"That's aesthetic appreciation. You're doing emotional damage to yourself."
I laughed despite myself.
But she wasn't wrong.
Because even here, surrounded by music and bodies and flashing lights, I was thinking about the way he held charcoal between his fingers like it was something delicate.
That was the problem.
He wasn't trying to be irresistible.
He just was.
Monday morning came too quickly.
I was exhausted, but the anticipation in my stomach had nothing to do with lack of sleep.
Art studio day.
He had announced it casually on Friday. "We'll be moving to the studio next week. Wear something you don't mind ruining."
The studio smelled like paint and turpentine and something metallic I couldn't name. Tall windows lined one wall, letting sunlight spill across half-finished canvases. Easels stood scattered like quiet sentinels.
He was already there when we arrived.
Black jeans. Grey t-shirt this time. A thin chain at his neck that caught the light when he moved.
He smiled when the class filed in.
"Welcome to the mess," he said.
His voice was relaxed. Easy.
He moved through the room distributing materials, explaining the assignment, self-portrait through abstraction. Emotion over accuracy.
"Don't try to look pretty," he said lightly. "That's not the point."
The girls giggled.
Maya whispered, "I'd let him critique my entire existence."
I elbowed her.
He stopped beside my easel.
I felt him before I saw him.
"You draw like you're afraid," he said quietly.
My fingers tightened around the charcoal.
"Afraid of what?" I asked, without looking at him.
"Being seen."
My throat went dry.
He moved on before I could respond.
That was what he did.
Drop something heavy.
Then walk away like it meant nothing.
I tried to focus on the canvas.
On lines.
On shading.
On texture.
But I could feel him moving around the room.
Stopping behind students.
Leaning slightly.
Offering low comments.
Every time he laughed at something someone said, something inside me twisted.
Why does he laugh so easily with everyone else?
Why does he never look at me for longer than necessary?
At one point, I felt him stop behind me again.
Silence.
Then warmth.
Not touching.
Just close enough that I could feel his presence.
"Too controlled," he murmured.
My pulse spiked.
"You're holding back."
"I'm not," I said softly.
"You are."
He leaned slightly closer.
"Art," he said, voice low, "only works when you let it bleed."
My hand trembled.
He stepped away again.
My heart didn't slow down for several minutes.
That afternoon, I went to the campus café alone.
I needed space.
I needed caffeine.
I needed not to think.
I was halfway through my drink when the door opened and a familiar laugh drifted in.
I didn't look up immediately.
I didn't want to confirm it.
But my body reacted anyway.
He was there.
With the same female professor.
They stood in line, talking quietly.
She touched his arm again.
Casual.
Possessive.
He smiled down at her, not wide, not bright, but real.
Or at least closer to real.
I stared at my cup.
Why did that bother me?
He owed me nothing.
We had one night.
One impulsive collision.
And now he was my professor.
He wasn't supposed to look at me differently.
He wasn't supposed to want me differently.
He wasn't supposed to want me at all.
And yet
When he turned slightly and his eyes landed on me
His smile faded.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
His expression shifted into something unreadable.
He said something to the professor.
She followed his gaze.
She saw me.
Her eyes assessed.
Curious.
Sharp.
Then she leaned closer to him and whispered something.
He didn't laugh.
He didn't react.
He just kept looking at me for half a second longer than necessary.
Then looked away.
That half-second ruined my entire afternoon.
My boyfriend showed up that evening with takeout.
"I thought we could eat on the lawn," he said.
He looked good.
Effortlessly so.
He had always been confident, charming in his own way. The kind of boy people liked easily.
We sat under a tree while the sky turned gold.
He talked about joining the football club.
About weekend plans.
About how we should plan a small trip after midterms.
He was trying.
I could see it.
But then his phone buzzed.
He flipped it over too quickly.
I noticed.
"Who is it?" I asked casually.
"No one."
He didn't meet my eyes.
Something inside me tightened.
"You're still talking to her, aren't you?"
He looked offended. "We broke up."
"You didn't break up," I said quietly. "You cheated."
He exhaled sharply. "Why are you bringing that up again?"
"Because I don't think you stopped."
His silence was answer enough.
Anger flared, sharp and sudden.
"You're unbelievable."
"I'm trying," he snapped. "What do you want from me?"
"I want honesty."
"You want control."
The words stung.
But maybe he wasn't entirely wrong.
Because at least with him, the chaos was visible.
With Adrian, it was quiet.
Contained.
And somehow worse.
Two days later, I made the mistake of going back to the studio after hours.
I told myself it was for practice.
For focus.
For independence.
But deep down, I think I hoped he would be there.
He was.
Alone.
Standing by a canvas I hadn't seen before.
The lights were dimmer. The studio quieter.
He didn't notice me at first.
He was painting.
Not carefully.
Not gently.
Aggressively.
Bold strokes. Dark colors. Something almost violent in the motion.
I stood frozen by the door.
This wasn't the smiling professor.
This wasn't the playful critic.
This was someone else.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
He stepped back from the canvas and ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard.
That's when he saw me.
Silence.
We stared at each other across the studio.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said calmly.
"You're not either."
A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
"Fair."
I stepped inside fully.
The door clicked softly behind me.
"What is it?" I asked, nodding toward the canvas.
He looked at it.
Then away.
"Nothing you need to understand."
"That's not how art works."
His eyes sharpened slightly.
"You've been thinking," he observed.
"You've been pretending."
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
His smile returned.
Easy.
Deflecting.
"I'm always pretending."
That honesty startled me.
He set the brush down.
"You should go," he said.
"Why?"
"Because you're looking at me like you expect something."
My heart thudded painfully.
"And what if I do?"
He stepped closer.
Not enough to touch.
Just enough to make my breath shallow.
"I don't give people what they expect," he said softly.
"Why?"
"Because expectations lead to attachment."
"And that's bad?"
"For me."
The finality in his tone made my chest ache.
I swallowed.
"Do you ever get tired of smiling?" I asked.
That caught him off guard.
His expression flickered.
Briefly.
Then the mask returned.
"You read too much into things."
"No," I said quietly. "I see too much."
Silence stretched.
The air felt heavier now.
Charged.
But not with promise.
With restraint.
He stepped back first.
"I'm not who you think I am," he said calmly.
"I know," I replied.
And I meant it.
Because the man in the studio, with paint on his hands and something haunted in his eyes wasn't the carefree professor everyone crushed on.
He was hiding.
And I wanted to know why.
He walked toward the sink, washing his hands.
The water ran for longer than necessary.
"You're young," he said without looking at me. "Don't waste your time trying to fix broken things."
"I'm not trying to fix you."
"Good."
"But I'm not afraid of broken."
That made him pause.
Only for a second.
Then he turned off the water.
"You should be," he said softly.
I didn't move.
Neither did he.
The space between us felt like a thin wire stretched too tight.
One step.
One wrong word.
And it would snap.
Instead, he picked up his jacket.
"Lock up when you leave."
And walked out.
Leaving me alone in the studio.
With the painting.
And the realization that I wasn't chasing love.
I was chasing the one person who refused to want it.
And that made me want him even more.