I don’t go to his class.
The realization hits me the moment I reach the academic building and stop short at the entrance, my reflection ghosted in the glass doors. Students stream past me, laughing, complaining about deadlines, clutching coffee cups like lifelines. Someone bumps my shoulder and mutters an apology.
I don’t move.
His class is on the second floor. Same lecture hall. Same seats. Same voice that used to feel like a steady hand on my spine.
My stomach twists violently.
“No,” I whisper to myself. “Not today.”
I turn on my heel and walk away before I can talk myself out of it.
The relief is immediate—and poisonous.
I tell myself it’s temporary. That I just need a few days. Space. Distance. Time to stop associating his name with humiliation and my mother’s secrets and the sick, crawling shame that still won’t leave my skin.
I spend the hour in the library instead, staring at a screen I can’t focus on. I type nonsense sentences into my notes and delete them immediately. My leg bounces uncontrollably beneath the table.
“Focus,” I murmur.
The words blur again.
When the hour ends, I feel worse instead of better.
The avoidance becomes a pattern.
I skip the next lecture too. And the one after that.
I sit in the back of my other classes, answering questions automatically, my body present while my mind floats somewhere above me. Professors speak. Pens scratch. Time moves.
I don’t.
By the end of the week, it’s impossible to pretend there aren’t consequences.
I open my email one evening and feel my chest tighten.
Subject: Missed Assignments
From: Academic Office
I don’t open it at first.
I close my laptop and pace the room, dragging my hands through my hair. My heart pounds with a familiar, sick rhythm—the one that always shows up when avoidance starts costing me.
“This is fine,” I mutter. “I can catch up.”
But the lie feels thin.
I open the email.
It’s polite. Professional. Concerned.
Three missed assignments.
Two unexcused absences.
A reminder about participation requirements.
No name mentioned.
No accusation.
Just facts.
I sink onto my chair, staring at the screen until the words blur. My throat tightens.
I knew this would happen. I just thought I’d care less.
Instead, guilt and anger coil together in my chest, sharp and ugly.
I shouldn’t have to lose my academic standing because of something they did.
Because my mother lied.
Because my professor is entangled in my personal life whether he wants to be or not.
I slam the laptop shut, then immediately regret it. My hands tremble.
Later that afternoon, I run into Clara from my program outside the building.
“Hey,” she says, slowing when she sees me. “You weren’t in Wilson’s lecture again.”
My body stiffens.
“I had a conflict,” I reply automatically.
She raises an eyebrow. “Three times?”
I force a smile. “Something like that.”
She studies me for a second. “He asked if you were okay.”
My heart stutters painfully.
“He—what?” I ask.
“He mentioned you during roll,” she says carefully. “Not by name. Just… noticed you weren’t there.”
Of course he did.
Heat crawls up my neck. “What did you say?”
“That you’re probably busy,” she replies. “Which you are. Right?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Busy.”
She nods slowly, unconvinced. “You should probably email him.”
The thought makes my stomach churn.
“I will,” I lie.
She hesitates, then adds, “You okay, Zoey?”
I open my mouth to answer—and realize I don’t know how.
“I’m fine,” I say instead.
She gives me a doubtful look but lets it go.
I don’t email him.
I can’t.
The idea of typing his name into the recipient line feels like stepping into traffic. Every possible sentence sounds wrong in my head—too defensive, too revealing, too cold.
Sorry for missing class.
Personal circumstances.
I need time.
Time for what? To stop feeling something I never had permission to feel in the first place?
The avoidance bleeds into everything else.
I turn in an essay late. I skip a study group. I stop raising my hand in class. The confidence I rebuilt so carefully starts slipping through my fingers again.
At night, I sit at my desk surrounded by notes and textbooks, staring at my reflection in the darkened window.
“You’re doing it again,” I whisper.
Sabotaging. Withdrawing. Punishing myself quietly so no one can accuse me of needing help.
I grip the edge of the desk, grounding myself. “Get it together.”
But my body doesn’t listen.
One afternoon, my phone buzzes with a notification I can’t ignore.
Unknown Number: Hi Zoey, this is Mr. Adams from the academic office. Please stop by when you have a moment.
My chest tightens.
This isn’t good.
I show up the next morning, sitting stiffly across from a small desk while Mr. Adams flips through my file.
“You’ve been an excellent student,” he says. “Which is why the sudden drop is… concerning.”
“I’m dealing with personal issues,” I reply, keeping my voice neutral.
He nods sympathetically. “That happens. But you need to communicate.”
“I know,” I say quietly.
He glances at the file again. “One professor in particular has flagged repeated absences.”
I feel heat crawl up my neck.
“You’re at risk of academic probation if this continues,” he adds gently. “I don’t want that for you.”
Neither do I.
“I’ll fix it,” I say quickly. “I promise.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods. “Good. Start by attending all classes next week.”
I leave his office feeling hollow.
On the way out, I pass the lecture hall.
His lecture hall.
The door is open. Voices echo inside. I glimpse rows of students, notebooks open, attention focused forward.
I stop just outside the threshold.
I can hear his voice.
Calm. Measured. Familiar.
My heart pounds violently, and I step back like I’ve been burned.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
I don’t go in.
Instead, I duck into the bathroom and lock myself into a stall, pressing my forehead against the door. My breath comes fast and shallow.
“I never had a chance,” I mutter. “Did I?”
The attraction was doomed from the start. Not because it was wrong—but because it existed in a space where I could never safely explore it. Because it belonged to secrets and power dynamics and a mother who never considered my emotional safety.
I wasn’t reckless.
I was set up to fail.
The realization doesn’t bring relief. It brings grief.
That night, I sit on my bed surrounded by open textbooks, unread. My phone buzzes with reminders and calendar alerts I ignore.
I hug my knees to my chest, staring at the wall.
“I thought choosing myself would protect me,” I whisper. “I thought it would be enough.”
But growth isn’t clean.
And sometimes choosing yourself means walking straight into loss.
I don’t cry.
I just sit there, hollow and angry, staring at a future that suddenly feels fragile again—cracked by avoidance, by shame, by a truth I never got to process properly.
Tomorrow, I’ll have to face it.
Tomorrow, I’ll have to walk back into that lecture hall or accept the consequences of not doing so.
But tonight, all I can do is acknowledge the truth clawing its way up from my chest:
I didn’t fail because I was weak.
I failed because the situation was never fair to begin with.