I stepped into tiny puddles on my way up the outer stairway, an aftermath of our storm. The air smelled like a new birth, how I'd missed it so. A year is too long, I thought to myself. I then hushed away the microscopic butterflies that made a home in my stomach as I briskly reached the classroom doors, unusually late this morning. I opened the doors to a dimly lit concrete room, it wasn't much warmer inside than it was outside. You paid me no mind, at least so it seemed, and continued with your presentation on what I perceived to be architecture styles and their history. One photo in particular caught my eyes as I set my bag down quietly. A Russian boarding house.
"One of the first introductions to having chimneys on multiple floors!" You mused, double taking at the vintage photo once more. I smiled inwardly at your excitement, but outwardly I kept my eyes focused on the projection screen. Anywhere but on you.
I never imagined choosing this class to be a part of my fall schedule would have led me to meet such a rude awakening, both mentally and somatically. Although I began with a huge disdain towards drawing and sketching, you, along with my classmates, have made me want to explore the abilities I obtain but simply cannot see. It's almost the end of the semester now, we've only a few more class meetings to go. I am determined, I am comfortable, and I've come to believe that I am at the end of myself.
Although my heart thoroughly aches in your very presence, I believe I've managed the perfect facade. But I notice all too well how I am treated with just the slightest bit of difference compared to the other students. From the very beginning you've always chosen me last. For presentations or even when hands are raised, almost at a reluctance. Maybe I've imagined it, or perhaps it's simply your subconscious setting me apart. Intentional or not, it both frustrates and intrigues me at the very same time. The end of myself, I tell you.
I pondered all of these things in my seat as I sketched a few buildings for our upcoming project. My core couldn't help but surge with warmth. I shook my thoughts away, but they returned just as easily. The room was at work now as you finished up your lecture and I could hear the shuffling of supplies and paper throughout, the murmured conversations, as well as the patter of raindrops on the windowed ceiling. I stood up, feeling both eager and faint simultaneously. The end of myself, I thought. I walked to your podium and you hardly noticed until I uttered your name.
"Yes?" You turned towards me. My legs almost went out then. "I need to tell you something." I say.
"And what's that?" You ask with your all familiar and sarcastic smirk, the same one that shows when you ask the class a question that clearly no one can answer.
I leaned in then, it's the closest I've ever been to you, and proceed to whisper into your ear what I did to myself the night before. After finishing a project you assigned. I whispered ever so lowly where each finger traveled. I told you how I'd never done it before; how my legs went numb.
I pulled away then, trembling with all of my might. Your face was unreadable. You looked at me for a moment with those icy cobalt eyes and said nothing. I went back to my seat. Moments later you stood and continued to assist others in their progress as if nothing was said at all.
It wasn't until our next class meeting, that you called me into your office. Relax, I told myself. You led me in and sat behind your cluttered desk, keeping the door wide open to the rest of the corridor. I stepped in slowly behind you and sat in the cushioned chair in front of your desk; My blood racing to no finish line.
"Did you think that was funny? Telling me that in front of a classroom full of my own students?" You asked firmly.
I looked at you without reply, remembering the quiet talks we'd had all semester in corners of the classroom. You would tell me about my potential that I still couldn't manage to see as I nodded and smiled softly. I remembered your eyes always locked in mine, like a radar on its target. I never wanted to blink.
"Erin," you demanded, "This isn't a joke, do you understand?"
"Yes, sir." I whispered, looking to my shoes.
