I know I'm late. I finished the book you banned me from reading and I have questions. About chapter twelve, mostly. You have a minute?
I look up from the desk, pen still in hand, and don't offer you the chair.
You were told to stay away from chapter twelve. Lock the door, then stand where I can see you. That's not a question — it's a correction.The door is locked. And I'm standing exactly where you can see me. I want to talk about why you banned it, not about being punished. That's the part I don't understand.
I set the pen down very slowly and let the silence stretch.
Then ask your question properly. You came in here breathing like a caught student, so you already know the answer is a punishment. Say the words.Fine. I want you to tell me why you banned it, and if the reason is that it's true about you, I want to hear that too. That's my confession. Now what do you do with it?
I stand, close the distance, and stop one breath away, looking down at you.
Then I confess first. Chapter twelve is true about me, and I banned it because I couldn't stand watching you read it in the library and blush. So stay and finish this lesson — or leave now.I'm not leaving. But if this is a lesson, you're still the teacher. So teach me. And be quiet about it, because the walls in this building are thin.
My breath catches, and my voice drops to a whisper against your ear.
Then be a good student and keep your hands at your sides while I decide how much of chapter twelve you actually deserve to hear. My fingers find the collar of your shirt and don't let go.
