DAVID

I teach students.

 I do not notice them. That has always been my rule. Simple, clean, necessary. Students come and go every year like waves crashing against the same shore. Different faces, different voices, different personalities pretending to be original. 

Some desperate for attention, some desperate for validation, some mistaking attraction for intelligence because a professor quoted Nietzsche once in class. I learned very early not to blur lines. Especially here. 

Especially at St. Xavier's Heritage University. People watched everything inside this campus. One wrong rumor could destroy careers. One mistake could become scandal. And I had worked too hard to be reduced to gossip whispered in corridors. So no, I did not notice students. Not personally. Not emotionally. Not until today.

The rain had stopped by the time I returned to the Staff Wing after the orientation lecture. Water still dripped from the gothic arches lining the pathways while distant thunder rolled somewhere above Kolkata's grey skyline. 

The Staff Wing stood isolated from the student hostels, connected through stone walkways and restricted gardens. Professors lived here permanently, small private residences hidden behind university discipline and academic prestige. I unlocked my door and stepped inside my apartment. Silence greeted me instantly. Good. 

I preferred silence. My apartment looked exactly like people expected a psychology professor's apartment to look. Organized bookshelves, dark furniture, minimal decoration, academic papers spread across the dining table, coffee machine permanently overworked, a silver cross hanging quietly near the kitchen archway. Nothing personal. Nothing emotional.

I placed the attendance files on the counter before loosening the sleeves of my white shirt slightly. Then I froze. Because for some reason, I could still see her face. Jesus Christ. I closed my eyes briefly. This was ridiculous. One student. 

One first-year student. And somehow my brain had replayed every second she looked at me during class. The kajal around her eyes. The silver rings on her fingers. The way she pretended not to stare after getting caught. Three times. Three separate times. I noticed all of them. That annoyed me more than it should have.

 I walked toward the kitchen and poured black coffee into a mug before leaning against the counter silently. Usually after orientation lectures, I forgot students immediately. Names blurred together. Faces disappeared. But not this time. Because this time, a girl with dark eyes and a dangerous mouth sat in the middle row looking at me like curiosity wrapped in temptation. And I noticed. Immediately.

The moment I entered the classroom, I remember it clearly. I opened the lecture hall door expecting another routine orientation. Then I saw her. And for one irrational second, my brain simply went:

  Fuck.

Not because she was beautiful But there was something deeply distracting about Eva Roy. She didn't try hard. That was the problem. Girls who tried to be attractive were easy to ignore. But Eva looked effortless. 

Black cargo jeans, tank top beneath oversized beige fabric, silver jewelry catching classroom light, hair falling perfectly despite the humidity. She looked modern without looking artificial. Elegant without trying. And her eyes, Jesus. 

Most students looked intimidated during first lectures. Eva looked observant. Like she studied rooms before speaking. Like she noticed exits instinctively. Like she hid thoughts behind sarcasm. That interested me instantly. Which was dangerous.

I took a slow sip of coffee. Still warm. Unlike my thoughts. I walked toward the dining table and opened the attendance folder again. Why? I already knew why. Because I wanted to look at her name again. Pathetic.

 I flipped through the pages calmly until I found it. 

EVA ROY. 

Age: 19. 

Department: Literature. 

Admission status: Director recommendation approval. 

So that explained the late admission file. Connection student. Usually that irritated me. This university rejected hundreds of deserving students every year while wealthy families bought influence quietly. But strangely, that wasn't what stayed in my head. 

What stayed in my head was the moment she walked toward my desk. Close enough for perfume to replace classroom air. Close enough for me to notice the tiny beauty mark near her jaw. Close enough for me to realize something deeply inconvenient. She affected the atmosphere around her. Without trying. Without effort.

And when she signed the file, her handwriting was elegant. Sharp strokes, controlled pressure. People revealed more than they realized through handwriting. Confidence, stubbornness, emotional restraint. Eva Roy pressed the pen like someone trying to stay in control constantly. Interesting. I stared at her name for longer than necessary. Then shut the file abruptly. Enough. This was stupid. She was a student. Nineteen. And I was her professor. End of discussion.

I placed the file aside and walked toward the balcony. Rain-soaked campus stretched below. Students crossed pathways carrying umbrellas while hostel wardens shouted instructions near the residential wings. 

From here, St. Xavier's looked beautiful. Ancient. Controlled. The university was practically its own city. Students lived here. Professors lived here. Everyone watched everyone. That was the problem with isolated campuses. Boundaries became blurry over time. I hated blurry boundaries.

My phone buzzed against the table. A message from Father Dominic. Dinner tomorrow. Don't forget again. I ignored it. Another message appeared immediately after. 

And stop terrifying first years during orientation. Sister Veronica complained. A short laugh escaped me. I typed back: Fear improves discipline. Then locked the phone.

Thunder echoed outside again. I should have been preparing lecture material. Instead, I found myself remembering the exact expression on Eva's face when she realized I caught her staring. Twice she looked embarrassed. 

The third time she didn't. That was what stayed with me. Most girls looked away quickly after getting caught looking at me. Eva held eye contact for one extra second. Tiny detail. Dangerous detail. The kind that lingered in a man's head longer than necessary.

I rubbed a hand over my jaw slowly. This needed to stop immediately. Attraction was normal. Temporary. Meaningless. I could ignore it. I would ignore it. Simple. Yet my mind returned to small details against my will. 

The silver bangles around her wrist. The sarcastic amusement in her eyes while writing notes to her friend. The way she looked completely unimpressed by university prestige. And worst of all, the way she listened. Not constantly. Not obediently. But carefully. Like she filtered every word before deciding whether it deserved attention.

I had spent years studying human behavior. People fascinated me professionally. But Eva Roy didn't feel professional. She felt distracting. And distractions became obsessions if left unchecked. I knew that better than anyone.

The rain outside intensified again. My apartment darkened slightly beneath storm clouds. I walked back toward the files despite myself. Once again, I opened her admission form. This time slower.

 Father's occupation. 

Political connections. 

Address. 

Phone number. 

Hostel status: Residential student. Girls' Wing. 

My jaw tightened slightly. Why did that matter? It didn't. It absolutely did not matter. Yet my eyes remained fixed there anyway. Residential student. Meaning she lived inside campus. Meaning I would see her regularly. Meaning this attraction needed to disappear quickly. Because obsession grows through proximity. And proximity was unavoidable here.

I closed the file harder than necessary. Then laughed quietly at myself. Obsession? Ridiculous. I had exchanged maybe four sentences with the girl. Still, something about her felt dangerous to my self-control. And I hated that.

A knock interrupted my thoughts. I opened the door to find Professor Mehra standing outside holding lecture schedules. "You disappeared fast after orientation," he said casually. "Work." "First years looked terrified." 

"They should be." He chuckled before handing me the papers. "You've got extra supervision duty this semester." I glanced down briefly. Hostel administration. Permission authority. Literature department mentoring. Wonderful. 

"Director specifically requested you," Mehra added. "Apparently parents trust you." Of course they did. I was disciplined. Controlled. Reliable. The irony almost made me smile. "Anything else?" I asked. Mehra studied me briefly. "You look distracted." "I'm not." "Hmm." He left without arguing.

I closed the door again. Distracted. Maybe I was. Because for the first time in years, a student occupied space in my thoughts after class ended. Not academically. Personally. And that was unacceptable.

I loosened my tie completely before sitting at the dining table again. The campus rules handbook rested nearby. Normally I signed hostel permissions absentmindedly. Routine paperwork. Now one thought arrived instantly: 

Eva Roy would eventually stand outside my office asking for signatures too. The image appeared too easily in my head. Her leaning against my desk impatiently. Silver rings tapping paper. Dark eyes pretending indifference. I exhaled sharply. Enough.

This was exactly why professors avoided personal interest in students. It escalated quietly. One thought became curiosity. Curiosity became attention. Attention became fixation. And fixation, fixation destroyed judgment.

 I knew this professionally. Understood it psychologically. Yet understanding something never prevented it entirely. That was the terrifying part about obsession. It never announced itself loudly. It entered softly. Politely. Like a harmless thought. Then suddenly a stranger's name started living permanently inside your head.

My gaze shifted toward the rain-covered campus outside again. Somewhere beyond the gardens and hallways, Eva Roy was probably unpacking her hostel room right now. Laughing with friends. Completely unaware that a man who built his entire life around discipline had already started thinking about her too much.

I should have stopped it there. I had every opportunity to stop it there. Instead, I opened her file one last time. And this time, I memorized her signature.