When someone tells you to "meet them in the library," you believe it's going to be a straightforward, uninteresting affair—like a group project that no one's prepared for or a tutoring session where the tutor quits up halfway through. But when Mr. Wright is the one leaving you a cryptic note, the stakes suddenly feel higher.
It's fine. Totally fine. I'm just going to meet him, get another lecture about "unlocking my potential," and walk out with more homework than any human brain can reasonably survive. That's it. Definitely nothing weird or worth overthinking.
So why, I ask myself for the hundredth time, am I sweating like I'm on trial for arson?
The library feels suspiciously quiet when I push open the heavy wooden door. I'm immediately greeted by the smell of old paper and furniture polish—like someone tried to bottle "intellectual vibes" as a fragrance. Sunlight filters through the tall, arched windows, hitting the dust particles in a way that makes the whole place feel dramatic, like a cathedral of words.
Mr. Wright's voice slices through the silence. "You're late."
I jump about three feet in the air and whip around. There he is—sitting near one of the long wooden tables, surrounded by a fortress of books. I swear he moves like a ghost. How does someone that tall and noticeable just appear without warning, out of nowhere?
"I'm only two minutes late," I say, holding up my phone defensively. "Some of us don't glide through life with strict punctuality bro!"
"I'm not your bro! Where is your honorifics, Alina?"
"------"
He doesn't smile, but there's an aggravating gleam in his eyes like he's enjoying this more than he should. "Two minutes is still late."
"-----"
"Sit."
"Bossy," I mumble under my breath, but I drop my bag and collapse into the chair across from him.
Really, I don't want to escort myself to death!
Now that I'm closer, I notice the details— he exudes an aura of effortless charm and authority. His broad shoulders and well-defined frame fill out his perfectly tailored charcoal-gray suit with precision, the fine fabric emphasizing his athletic build.
A crisp white shirt peeks out from beneath the sharp lines of his suit, paired with a classic silk tie in a deep navy hue that complements his piercing, stormy-gray eyes.
His angular jawline is clean-shaven, accentuating his chiseled features, while his dark, slightly wavy hair is impeccably styled, with a single rebellious strand falling across his forehead.
His hands, strong yet elegant, rest comfortably on the table and that veins believe me that's a thing to notice; the way his glasses slip lower on his nose as he scans the pile of books like he's about to unearth some sacred treasure. The light catches in his hair, turning it more golden than usual, and for a second, I have this bizarre thought that he looks weirdly poetic.
Now I know why those girls are crazy about him. Actually, I never noticed him, maybe because I don't like him. But he really is sexy!
What the hell are you thinking, Alina? He is for God sake, your teacher. And you don't like him. Right?
I again noticed the way he adjusts his cufflinks with effortless precision or the way his lips curve into a faint, knowing smile when he catches someone staring—all of it feels like something straight out of a romantic daydream.
Oh, shit! He caught me staring at him. My heart skipped a beat as his piercing gaze locked onto mine for a split second. Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I immediately lowered my face into the book, pretending to be engrossed in the lines that now blurred before my eyes.
I could feel the weight of his glance lingering, and it only made my pulse race faster. Did he notice? Was he smirking? I dared not look up to find out. Instead, I buried myself deeper in the pages, silently cursing my own foolishness.
It's really easy to imagine those girls or I should say coquettes blushing and whispering among themselves, weaving little fantasies of stolen glances, forbidden notes, and heart-racing moments in the quiet corners of the class.
After all, who wouldn't lose themselves in daydreams when faced with a man who seems to embody every romantic cliché in the most dangerously real way?
Stop it, Alina.
"You're staring," he says without looking up.
"I'm not staring." I looked hard at the table to prove my point. My gaze settles on a hefty hardcover book titled The Foundations of Literary Analysis.
I groan aloud. "Oh, great. A book so heavy it could act as a weapon. Is this what you summoned me here for?"
He finally looks up, pinning me with that calm, unreadable glare. "Partially. I believe it was time you learned to take your studies seriously."
"I do take them seriously," I say, flailing my fists in the air. "You don't know how long it took me to come up with my 'stubborn plum blossom' theory."
"Alina." His voice has that infuriating, calm tone that makes me feel like a child getting punished for drawing on the walls. "You're bright. But excuses aren't a substitute for effort, you know that, right?"
Something about the way he says it—calm, steady, but piercing enough to poke straight through my defenses—makes my cheeks heat up. I look away, focused on the big books instead of him.
"Well, I hope you brought snacks because if you expect me to read all this, we're going to be here for eternity."
He chuckles softly, "You're not reading them all," he says simply, handing me a much thinner volume. The Poetics of Resilience. "We'll start with this."
I take the book with exaggerated reluctance. "Resilience, huh? Is this a clever way of urging me to quit whining?"
"Interpret it however you want," he says calmly, reclining back in his chair.
For a few minutes, we get into an odd sort of rhythm—me pretending to read, him rummaging through papers. I peek at him over the top of my book occasionally, because despite my best efforts to ignore it, there's something about the way he carries himself. Everything he does is purposeful—like he's carefully in control of every word, every look.
And yet, there's something else there. A calm intensity. It's… unnerving.
I brush the idea off and focus back on the book, skimming through pages that deal with perseverance, survival, and fortitude in adversity. I pretend to take notes in my notepad, penning down stuff like "Why do poets always talk in riddles?" and "If resilience means homework, I'm out."
After a while, Mr. Wright speaks up. "What do you think so far?"
I look up, ready to bluff my way through this. "It's… inspiring?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Inspiring?"
"Yeah. Poetic folks are obstinate, evidently. Like the plum blossom. You know, survival despite all odds. Very motivational."
There's a pause. Then he lets out a soft chuckle.
Wait—did he just laugh?
It's so brief I almost miss it, but it happens. For a split second, the stoic Mr. actually cracks. I narrowed my eyes on him. "Did you just laugh at me?"
He clears his throat, straightening his papers as though to regain control of the universe. "No."
"You did. I heard it!"
"I did no such thing."
"You're not as intimidating as you think you are," I tease, leaning back smugly in my chair.
He looks up at me again, and for a minute, his gaze seems sharper than before—like he's evaluating my words, or maybe me. "Don't tease me, Alina."
"Tease", is this word used like that?
The way he says my name sends an odd chill down my spine. I instantly look aside, scowling at my notebook to mask the heat creeping up my face.
We lapse into silence again. But this time, it's different. The air feels… thicker. Like there's something unspoken lingering in the space between us. I flip through the pages more violently than required, just to relieve the tension.
Finally, Mr. Wright speaks again. "Why do you hide behind sarcasm?"
I freeze, blinking at him. "What?"
"Your humor," he says, matter-of-factly. "Is it a defense mechanism?"
I let out a snort. "Wow. Did you pick it up in your 'How to Psychoanalyze Teenagers' class?"
"I'm serious." His voice softens, and it throws me off balance. "You have more to say than you let on, Alina. Why do you bury it?"
I stare at him, feeling uncomfortably exposed. "Maybe because nobody listens," I mutter before I can stop myself.
His stare doesn't waver. "Well, I'm good at listening."
And just like that, I forget how to breathe. Wow…
It's not the words themselves. It's the way he says them—with such quiet assurance that it feels like he means it. Like he genuinely sees me. And for some reason, that terrifies me more than anything.
"Well, that's… creepy," I blurt, attempting to shrug off the uncomfortable knot in my chest. "You don't have to get all deep on me. I'm fine, okay?"
"Fine isn't the same as honest."
"Is this a library or a therapy office?"
"-----"
We lock eyes across the table, and for a long second, I don't know what to say. He's watching me in that calm, assessing way of his, and for once, I can't think of a snarky comeback.
Finally, I stand up abruptly, grabbing my bag. "Okay, well, thanks for the book, Doctor Phil. I'll bring you a new essay tomorrow."
Mr. Wright doesn't stop me, but as I turn to leave, his voice follows me. "Alina."
I pause, glancing over my shoulder.
His expression is unreadable again, but his voice is softer. "Don't underestimate yourself."
Something twists in my chest—like I've been hit with a truth I didn't ask for.
I don't say anything. I just nod stiffly and walk out of the library, my heart pounding like I've run a marathon.
As I walk home, I replay the conversation in my head—his words, his calm voice, the way he looked at me. It's infuriating. Who does he think he is, peeling me apart like I'm some complicated poem?
And yet…
And yet a tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers, He's not wrong.
For the first time, I wonder if maybe—just maybe—Mr. Wright sees something in me that I've been trying to hide from myself.
But that's a thought for another day.