Liam

The lecture hall hums with the typical noise of a class ending, but there is a distinct undertone of uneven, heightened anticipation. The professor slowly gathers his papers, his movements precise and measured to the millimeter. It feels as though even the dust motes dancing in the sunlight freeze in place, as if afraid to disturb this calibrated order. Students are already beginning to gather around his desk, hoping to detain him for even a few minutes, but his gaze, sweeping across the room, is devoid of interest. It is a cold, polite detachment that makes words catch in one's throat.

— That is all for today. Please direct any questions regarding the material to my email, — his voice is steady, devoid of unnecessary inflection, as if cutting off any attempt at a personal tone.

The professor raises his eyes to the person standing closest to him, tilting his head slightly. There is no irritation in his eyes, only a weary realization that the time allotted for intellectual pursuits is once again being encroached upon by something entirely different.

That look again. Why is it so difficult to understand that this office is a space for discussion, not for the display of sympathies? Every unnecessary breath here is a waste of what I value most.

His briefcase snaps shut with a soft click. The professor takes a step forward, forcing an involuntary retreat, and stops just short of the other person's personal space—exactly far enough to establish an insurmountable boundary.

— Do you have something truly important that cannot wait until next week? Or will you allow me to finish my preparations for tomorrow in solitude?