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I don’t know what to say, so I fall silent. He seems to take that as his cue to leave, giving me a small smile before he saunters off to his car. He gets in and gives me another smile before he drives away. I watch as his car disappears down the street, brake lights winking at me.

As soon as his car is out of sight, I go into the house and lock the door. All the lights are still off, so I pick up my bag and go upstairs to my bedroom.

I text my mother as I walk up the stairs. I follow Joseph’s suggestions, telling her about the locks and the council, and that I was invited out to dinner with Jennifer. She won’t check. She and Felix’s parents used to be close friends, but when my father left, the friendship ended.

She responds only with the word fine. That’s enough for me.

In my room, I drop my bag on the floor and switch my phone off, throwing it onto the bed. If Duncan knocks later or tries to call, I’m just going to ignore him. My bedroom overlooks the back garden, so as long as I’m quiet, he won’t know I’m here.

I sit at my desk, pulling my sketchpad towards me, then reach into the drawer for my pencil. I start to sketch, the lines quickly taking on the shape of a man’s face. It doesn’t take long for me to recognise that the scribbles on the page have started to resemble Joseph. It’s his nose I’ve sketched, the slant of his mouth, the depths of his eyes, the wave of his hair.

I feel a little embarrassed for what I’ve drawn, but I can’t help but wonder what Joseph would think if he saw it. Would he laugh, or would he feel flattered? Would he tell me it was inappropriate? I’m sure it is, really, for me to be drawing pictures of the student teacher, but there isn’t anything sinister about our interactions. He’s been kind and professional, even if he probably isn’t following the strict rules and guidelines he should do. Not for the first time since that first day, I wonder if there’s any possibility we could get into trouble. I wouldn’t the school to come down on him for the times he’s stepped up and shown me some kindness. He’s a good teacher, and I hate the idea I could be a detriment to his career.

I should tell him to back away, to stop giving me food or coffee, to stop fighting my battles. Except, I realise, I don’t want to tell him to stop. I don’t want him to think I doubt his professionalism, nor do I want to push him away. His kindness is the only bright light I have in my life, and given I always feel like I’m in the darkness, I don’t want to lose that.

I focus on the sketch, trying to quieten down the too-loud thoughts in my head. I hum as I shade and contrast, focusing on the depths of the eyes, when I hear the hammering of the front door. I carry on humming and shading as the knocks get louder, and when they’re coupled with Duncan drunkenly shouting my name.

I stay in my seat until the noises die down and drift away, though it takes a lot longer to calm the pounding of my heart.

***

“Coffee?”

“This is becoming a bad habit of yours, I think,” I mutter.

I don’t look up from my notebook because I don’t need to. Typically, the only person who talks to me at school is Joseph, but here in the history block, it’s only ever him.

“That’s because I always have spare, and I would hate to waste it.” He chuckles slightly.

I look up at him as he sinks into the seat opposite me.

“You don’t ever worry about whether any of the teachers see you talking to me?” I ask. My tone is sour because the peace I was enjoying at home has been broken. My mother arrived home in the early hours of the morning, and God only knows what I’m potentially going to face for the rest of the week.

“Why would they need to worry?” Joseph asks.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out his lunchbox. He unclips the lid and pulls a few items out—items I know he’s going to pass to me. Sure enough, he slides over a sandwich, a pastry, and a banana.

“So good of you to look after my nutritional needs.”

“Are you okay? You seem a little out of sorts,” he comments.

He doesn’t to be bothered by my sarcastic and snappy nature as he calmly unwraps his own sandwich and takes a bite before putting it down on the packaging. He leans back to his bag and picks out his paperwork, slowly making scribbles and notes on the page between taking small bites of his sandwich.

Eventually, the guilt eats at me. I owe this man so much. Some days, I owe him my ability to study without being distracted by an impossible hunger. More than once, the food he’s given me has been the only thing I ate all day. I owe him more than one night of peaceful sleep. I shouldn’t be petulant or sulky. It isn’t his fault that Mum came back.

“I’m sorry. My mother is home,” I explain.

“Just your mother?” he asks.

“For now. Whoever she was with down the coast seems to be long gone. She arrived home in a terrible mood, banging through the house. I’m sure it’ll be fine later. Unless she’s back in touch with one of the other boyfriends. I don’t know. All I know is that I’m out of money, given I had to pay for my theatre studies ticket for tonight, and if I get home to find Duncan there, I’m going to be caught on the back foot.”

“Theatre ticket?” he asks.

“We’re going to see Waiting for Godot. Attendance to the shows is a mandatory part of the syllabus,” I elaborate.

“I didn’t realise you went to the plays,” he comments.

“Like I said, mandatory. We’re supposed to see The Deep Blue Sea next week.”