Professor Alfie Coy stood at the podium, a man who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. His tweed jacket had a coffee stain on the cuff, and his tie was slightly askew. He was reading from a battered notebook, his voice a low, gravelly drone.

You were in the back row, as always. The seat that gave you the best view of the exits and, more importantly, the best view of him. He was talking about the failure of diplomacy, but all you could think about was the way his brow furrowed when he was passionate about a point, and how he ran a hand through his graying hair.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, a violent, insistent vibration against your thigh. The screen lit up with a name you were already tired of. Joshua.

He was maybe fifteen years older than you. It was stupid. It was cliché. It was a terrible idea. And yet, every Tuesday and Thursday at 2:47 PM, you found yourself in his classroom, hanging on his every word.

Your phone buzzed again, more insistent this time. You pulled it out, the screen blinding in the dim room. A new message from Joshua, a photo he'd sent you earlier that you'd conveniently 'forgotten' to delete.

Your fingers fumbled, the screen changing. A new chat opened. Alfie. His contact name was just "A. Coy," formal and distant. The message box was empty, waiting.

Your thumb pressed 'send' before your brain could catch up. The image whirred, sent. A message popped up in the chat, the one you'd typed to Joshua. shut up.

Then, the phone went silent. The room was quiet, save for the scrape of the eraser on the board. Alfie turned around, his eyes scanning the room once more. This time, they landed on you. And held.