" New Seat, Old Heart"
The Student:
She walked in.
Not enough to warrant a reprimand,
but just enough to demand attention.
Her heels clicked like exclamation marks,
declaring her entrance more than necessary.
I blinked.
My notes disappeared.
The ceiling shifted.
Even the clock hesitated.
She was young
too young to be standing there,
and yet,
too composed to be anything but above me.
Her voice wasn't soft.
It struck
like a wave that didn't break,
just swallowed.
And I stared,
disguised behind my lazy smirk,
a quiet hum of fascination beneath my breath.
I didn't know I had a type
until she asked us to open the textbook.
I didn't know I could want
to memorize more than just pages.
She never looked at me directly
always grazing.
Always hovering on the edge of eye contact,
as if even glancing at me too long
might shatter the room.
I laughed louder than the others.
Answered questions with something clever.
Waited for a nod,
a flicker of approval.
But she gave none.
She doesn't need to be liked.
She doesn't try.
And that
That ruins me a little.
My notebook's margins are no longer mine.
Her name doesn't appear,
but her image does
lined in metaphors and coffee stains,
a silhouette in ink.
I wonder what her hair smells like.
I wonder if she notices me
or if she chooses not to.
She said something about ethics today.
About boundaries.
About things that shouldn't be crossed.
But the way she licked her thumb
before turning the page…
She crossed something, didn't she?
Even if it's just in me.