"I Stayed After Class"
The Student:
I didn't plan to stay.
The bell rang like a soft permission to leave,
but I lingered, packing my books too slow,
watching you sort papers with a quiet elegance
that shouldn't belong to someone in this world.
You looked up only briefly.
It was enough.
"Need help?" I asked, voice half-bold, half-burning.
You smiled,
not in the way teachers usually do,
but like you saw through me
and found something amusing.
It shook something in me I couldn't name.
You didn't answer.
Just handed me a stack of essays,
your fingers brushing mine like it meant nothing.
But it did.
I can still feel it.
We talked
About books, theories,
art and why meaning escapes the unwilling.
But I watched your lips more than I listened.
Every curve, every sip of water,
every pause was poetry I never learned to read.
The room grew smaller.
Not literally.
Just… us.
Close enough that my shoulder almost touched yours
as we leaned over the same page,
tracing words neither of us dared speak aloud.
I forgot I was just a student.
You made me forget.
Then
a soft laugh,
something about my handwriting,
your breath close to my cheek.
And I…
I looked at your mouth.
It was dangerous.
So I stood. Too quickly.
Said I should go.
That it was late.
You didn't stop me
but you didn't look away either.
And as I left,
I felt it again
that unmistakable pull.
The kind that doesn't need a touch to leave a mark.