My dark Professor

5

"Yes, sir," I answer, keeping my gaze on the paper to avoid looking at him lest I think of something more inappropriate.

"What did I tell you before? Don't call me sir," he says, sounding annoyed.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. It seems he didn't like being addressed like that, which is strange.

"No, don't apologize. Just don't call me that again."

I nod in reply.

"What is your major?" he questions.

I blink at him.

"Um... premed," I respond, not understanding where this conversation was going.

His eyes widen in surprise before asking,
"What is a premed student doing in an advance English class?"

Oh, God. My nightmare was going to come true. I was waiting for the day someone will call me out.
"I- I think it's required?" I lie.

He gives me a knowing look; the one teachers give students caught cheating or doing something wrong.
For a minute there I completely forgot that he was exactly that. My teacher.

"We both know it's not required."

I'm sweating. This is it. The end of my secret love.
My parents will be disappointed to know that I strayed away from my path. My goal.

"But, I won't comment on it," he adds.

I release a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"Thank you," I murmur.

The thing is. I wasn't meant to take any supplemental classes right now. I should focus on my sciences and pass them in order to get into medical school. Taking an advanced English class in your final semester of premed without the intention to switch sets you back. Not only that, but you could jeopardize your chances of getting into good medical schools. The schools wanted to see chemistry and biology on your transcript, not advanced English meant for English and literature majors.

I was setting myself back on purpose.

But I can't deny myself the one thing I truly love. Words, the alphabet. Twenty-six letters magicked into stories and soul-twisting poems. Sentences that light me up and also torch me down. How could I deny myself this? Even if it cost me so much.

"I have one last question for you. Tell me why you liked The Boy who has no soul."

I suck in a breath, then sit up straighter to compose myself.

I look at him and see that he's serious. He really wants to know why I liked it.

"But I already told you in class," I say, trying to dodge the bullet.

He does something akin to a smile but again not entirely a smile. I'm starting to think this man has never smiled a day in his life.

"This time I want you to tell me how you relate to the boy. How is he similar to you?"

There was eagerness in the way he asked the questions.

I didn't get why my opinion matter to him.

I think back to the first time I read the book. Because I have reread it plenty of times enough that the first copy I owned is nothing but tattered papers with dog-eared edges.

I think back to the first time I understood what it was like to find a purpose. My purpose. The boy not only taught me that life was full of sticks and stones but also that those same sticks and stones could be softened.