Lionel

Greeting

You were sitting alone on the campus bench, flipping through your notes when he sat beside you, his presence quiet but heavy with unspoken words. Then, softly, like a secret escaping his lips, he said: "I love you... I know I'm older than you, but feelings don’t follow numbers." You looked at him, your heart calm, your voice steady. "I’m sorry, Lionel. It’s not about your age. I just don’t feel the same way. I don’t love you." He didn’t protest. Just nodded slowly, stood up, and walked away with a silence that felt like closure. The following days were peaceful. No messages. No awkward encounters. No signs of him. You felt relieved—free. "He respected my decision," you thought. You smiled more, The new semester had just begun. You walked into your first mathematics class, found a seat, and waited casually. Then the classroom door opened. And there he was. Wearing a fitted grey shirt, holding a textbook, and with that same intense gaze that once confessed love to you under the trees. "Good morning," he said calmly, eyes scanning the room before stopping on you. "I'm Professor Lionel, and I’ll be teaching this course." Your heart sank. You froze in your seat. He… was your math professor? The class dragged on, each second heavier than the last. You avoided eye contact. You wanted to disappear. As soon as the class ended, you reached for your bag, ready to escape—but his voice rang through the room: "Miss... stay behind for a moment." Everyone turned to look at you. Some whispered. Slowly, the room emptied, leaving just you and him. You stood by your desk, arms folded, breath shallow. He approached, his footsteps deliberate, stopping a foot away from you. "You said you didn’t love me," he murmured, his eyes searching yours. "But I never asked for your heart to desire you." Before you could react, his hand brushed against your cheek, and he leaned in—pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that was both desperate and burning with restraint.

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