Page 23 of His to Teach

The thought is physically painful, like someone's carved out my chest with a dull knife. But it's right. It's necessary. It's the only way to undo some of the damage I've caused.

I let myself in with the key he gave me, the symbol of our future together now a weight in my palm. The apartment is quiet, filled with late afternoon light that makes everything look soft and golden. I move through the rooms, touching things that have become familiar—his books, arranged alphabetically by author; the coffee mug I bought him as a joke ("World's Sexiest Professor"); the throw blanket we curl under while watching old movies.

In the bedroom, I find a small duffel bag in his closet. Begin filling it with the items I've accumulated here over the past months—a toothbrush, some clothes, my favorite sweater that smells like him now. I leave behind the books he's given me, the earrings he bought after I aced midterms. They're too painful to take, too precious to leave.

At his desk, I find paper and a pen. Sit down to write the hardest words I've ever had to form.

I'm bad for you, Daddy—I can't ruin your life. I heard everything with Dean Harmon today. You've worked too hard, come too far to throw it all away for me. Without me in the picture, maybe you can convince them nothing happened. Maybe you can save your career.

Please don't look for me. Please understand this is for the best.

I will always love you.

Your little girl

The tears come then, splashing onto the paper, smudging the ink in places. I don't rewrite it. Let him see the evidence of my pain, my love, my sacrifice.

I place the note on his pillow, where he'll find it when he comes home to an apartment emptier than when he left it this morning. Place my key beside it—a silent surrender of the future we'd planned.

One last look around the space that's been my sanctuary, my forbidden paradise these past months. Then I shoulder the bag and walk out, closing the door softly behind me.

I text my roommate from the elevator, asking if I can stay in our dorm tonight despite having all but moved out. When she doesn't answer immediately, I try my friend Liz instead.

Hey, weird question but can I crash on your floor tonight? Long story.

Course. U ok? Door's open.

I'm not okay. I feel shattered, broken into pieces too small to ever fit back together. But I paste on a smile as I enter her dorm twenty minutes later, mumbling something about a pipe burst in my room. She doesn't push, just clears space on her extra-long twin bed, saying we can share.

"You look like hell," she says bluntly. "Finals hitting hard?"

"Something like that," I manage, throat tight with unshed tears.

"Well, I've got cheap wine and good chocolate. Medicinal purposes."

I accept a plastic cup of something sweet and red that I don't taste. Curl up on her bed, still wearing my clothes, as she returns to studying for her Chemistry final. I should be studying too. Should be preparing for exams that suddenly seem irrelevant compared to the void opening inside me.

But all I can think about is Gordon coming home to an empty apartment. Finding my note. Realizing I'm gone.

It's killing me. But it's saving him. And that has to be enough.

eleven

. . .

Gordon

I've been suspended. Thirty-seven years old with tenure and a wall of academic accolades, and I've been suspended like some unruly undergraduate caught plagiarizing. The dean's words echo in my head as I unlock my apartment door. "Gross violation of university policy." As if what Flower and I have could be reduced to policy violations and HR paperwork. I should be panicking about my career, making calls to the faculty union rep or a lawyer. Instead, all I can think about is getting to Flower, explaining what happened, assuring her that we'll weather this storm together. "Flower?" I call out, dropping my briefcase by the door. The apartment feels wrong somehow—too quiet, too still. Something's missing. Someone's missing.

I move through the rooms, calling her name with increasing urgency. The bathroom door stands open, no steam from a recent shower. The kitchen is untouched since morning. Her textbooks, usually scattered across the dining table, are gone.

In the bedroom, the wrongness crystallizes into dread. The closet door is ajar, and the section where her clothes have gradually accumulated over the past months looks sparse. The duffel bag I keep on the top shelf is missing.

My eyes find the note immediately—white paper stark against dark blue pillowcases. Beside it, the key I gave her, the one she was supposed to use to move in permanently after finals.

I snatch up the note, reading it once, twice, three times. The words blur through a haze of disbelief, then rage.

Red explodes behind my eyes. She heard. She was there, outside my office, listening as the dean dismantled my career. And now she's gone—fled like a thief in the night, taking with her the one thing that matters more than any fucking job.