His steps falter. His breath catches in his throat.
For a long second, he just stares at her name glowing softly in the dark, her words simple and brave. She's reaching out again, not demanding, not accusing — just asking. Waiting.
And it hurts.
It hurts knowing that she's giving him this space, still giving him kindness, still offering him a way to speak — to be honest.
His thumb hovers for a heartbeat above the reply option.
But then… slowly… he lets his arm fall to his side. The screen goes dim again.
Not because he doesn't want to call. He wants nothing more than to hear her voice right now.
But what if loving her means bringing her into something cruel? What if loving her means hurting her?
His chest rises and falls sharply, not from the running anymore, but from the weight of choice.
The wind rushes past him. The river keeps moving, steady, unaware of the storm swelling in his heart.
He clenches his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut for a second.
I don't know what to do. I don't want to lose her.But the last thing I want… is to be the reason she suffers.
The ache of indecision is sharper than the burning in his legs, deeper than the chill cutting through his clothes.
"All right, so for today's class we will go over…" Julian's voice carries steadily from the podium.
The projector casts a soft glow behind him, illuminating the complex diagrams and notes he's carefully prepared. The room is hushed, the students' eyes fixed on him, absorbing every word as he lectures with practiced ease.
But one familiar presence is missing.
Grace.
Julian's gaze scans the rows of seats, but where she once sat, there's only empty space. The seat at the back, usually occupied by her, remains vacant—an absence that tightens like a knot in his chest.
Harry sits quietly alone near the corner, his posture slightly withdrawn. Julian's voice continues smoothly, but a flicker of distraction shadows his expression.
The lecture wraps up a little earlier than usual, and the students begin to pack their things, slowly filing past Julian as he tidies the podium. Smiles and polite "thank you"s ripple through the room like a soft breeze.
Harry is last to approach, stepping forward cautiously.
"Thank you for today's good lecture," he says quietly, avoiding eye contact.
Julian smiles gently, slipping his laptop into its bag.
"Have a good day, Harry."
Just as Harry reaches the door, he turns back with a tentative look.
"About the later group projects…" His voice drops, searching Julian's eyes.
"Will you pair me up with another group?"
Julian meets his gaze, feeling the unexpected sting of that simple question—a reminder of absence, change, loss. For a brief moment, his eyes flicker with an unspoken ache.
"Yeah, I will. I'll send the new group assignment sheet by the end of the week."
"Thanks," Harry replies and disappears through the door.
Julian stands alone in the near-empty lecture hall, the faint echo of closing footsteps fading. He lowers his hands from the scattered papers, his eyes involuntarily drifting to the back of the room—the place where Grace used to sit. The empty seat now feels like a silent testament to her absence.
She's no longer here. She withdrew from the course.
The weight of that truth presses down on him, heavier than any lecture notes or deadlines. Weeks have passed since she last spoke to him, since she waited for his call that never came. She didn't push for it. Instead, she quietly disappeared.
Julian knows the official post tried to clear the rumors—the photo, the gossip, the misunderstandings—but no amount of public explanation could erase the sting she must have felt. The pressure of being seen together, the whispered judgment from classmates—it all became too much.
He stares longer at that empty chair, imagining how things might have been different if he had just called her back, if he had bared his heart with honesty instead of fear.
But he was afraid. Still afraid.
And yet—he misses her. So deeply that the ache feels almost surreal. The absence of her presence wraps around him like a cold fog, leaving him breathless in moments he never expected to feel this way about someone again—someone other than Hannah.
He's searched the campus in silent desperation, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. The familiar corners, the bustling student cafes, the quiet study nooks. But Grace remains elusive, like a shadow just out of reach.
He could have gone to the faculty building where her major courses are held—where she's probably surrounded by friends, by normalcy—but he never dared. He didn't want to add pressure, didn't have the courage for such a bold step.
And so, all that remains is this aching void, this unreal longing—a quiet ache inside him that whispers her name in every empty seat, every passing moment.
Julian steps back into his professor's office. The clock on the wall reads 11:00 a.m.—still early, but the morning has already slipped past the quiet urgency of his thoughts. He moves toward the coffee machine with a practiced rhythm, the familiar whirring and hissing sounds grounding him, if only slightly. The rich, earthy aroma of freshly brewed espresso fills the small space, mingling with the faint scent of paper and ink scattered across his desk.
Cradling the warm cup in his hand, Julian walks to the window and pulls up the blinds. Outside, the world is drenched in autumn's quiet glory. It's late October now—summer's heat long departed, replaced by crisp air that carries a subtle chill. The trees are ablaze with colors, a kaleidoscope of burnt orange, deep crimson, and golden yellow, their leaves fluttering gently in the breeze like a whispered symphony of change.
His eyes sweep the pathway below, almost unconsciously searching for a familiar figure. Grace. But she's nowhere to be seen. The usual spot where their paths once crossed, the soft footfalls he used to recognize—empty.
A bitter knot tightens in his chest. Maybe she's deliberately avoiding this route, he thinks, the thought tasting as sharp and acrid as the dark espresso on his tongue. The silence between them stretches longer than it should, weighted with unspoken words and unsaid feelings.
That's when his gaze falls on an envelope resting on the corner of his desk—worn at the edges, the handwriting delicate and careful. It's the letter Grace sent months ago, the one she addressed to the anonymous donor who helped her quietly, never knowing that donor was him.
A strange mixture of warmth and sorrow floods through Julian's veins. He picks up the letter, turning it over gently as a new idea takes root in his mind.
With a hesitant breath, he pulls out a fresh sheet of paper and sits down at his desk. He knows this may be a foolish, even desperate attempt—reaching out in a way that doesn't carry the weight of "Professor Julian," the man she sees in lectures and formal halls. Instead, this would be Julian, the anonymous donor—the one she had trusted, perhaps even liked, without the walls of titles and expectations.
Maybe, just maybe, through this quieter, more personal channel, he could bridge the distance between them. Speak to her heart without the fear and complications that their current reality imposes.
His hand trembles slightly as he begins to write, the pen scratching softly against the paper. The words flow slower at first—tentative, careful—but with each line, he feels a fragile thread of hope weaving through the emptiness.
That afternoon, as Grace steps out of the quiet sanctuary of the library, the soft rustle of her footsteps blends with the gentle hum of campus life. She moves steadily toward a section of the university farther away from the bustling Arts and Design faculty building—an area where the crowd thins and the air feels a little cooler, tinged with the faint scent of autumn leaves.
Suddenly, her phone buzzes in her hand. She glances down, and her eyes catch the sender's name: the administration office.
Her steps falter mid-stride. The message hangs in the air like a delicate question, pulling at the edges of her thoughts.
A letter from the donor?
Her heart skips—a flutter of surprise, curiosity, and something almost hopeful. She had sent that letter months ago, pouring her gratitude, her quiet admiration, into words that had vanished into the void of silence. Back then, when no reply ever came, she had pushed the hope aside, telling herself not to expect anything.
But now—now the silence has been broken. The donor has reached out.
A sudden rush of anticipation swells within her chest. She wants to know—what words did this mysterious benefactor have for her? What thoughts or feelings lie hidden in that letter, waiting to be uncovered?
Without hesitation, Grace quickens her pace, determination sparking in her eyes. This letter could change everything.