The Spark
Auther’s note:
© AVINASH (@Avi_writes) 2026
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
“Forbidden Lessons” is published exclusively on Inkitt & other selected platforms. Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or exhibition of this work outside of the Inkitt platform is prohibited.
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Beginning of the story:
Ashbourne University is like something out of a classic novel. I’ve spent four years here, and I still feel awestruck by the ivy climbing the walls of the old brick buildings. The cobblestone paths that crisscross the campus feel like they hold a thousand stories. The clock tower, standing tall at the heart of the university, always draws my eye. When its bell rings, it’s like the whole campus takes a breath, and for a moment, everything feels still.
My favorite spot is under this massive oak tree near the library. The library is my sanctuary. Its stained-glass windows let in colorful light that dances across the wooden floors, and the shelves are so high they seem to touch the sky. Whenever I’m there, surrounded by books, I can forget about everything else. I’ve always dreamed of seeing my name on one of those spines someday. It’s what keeps me going, even when the fear of failing creeps in.
I’m Emma Hayes, a 22-year-old literature major in my final year. People say I’m passionate and ambitious. I guess I am. I’m the kind of student who sits in the front row, my notebook open, fountain pen ready. My friends tease me about my messy bun—it never stays neat. Strands of auburn hair always escape to frame my face, no matter what I do. But honestly, I don’t mind. It’s me.
Then there’s Dr. Ethan Sinclair. Even saying his name feels like something forbidden. He’s the professor everyone whispers about. He’s 38, brilliant, and honestly, a little intimidating. His lectures make you question everything you thought you knew. He’s tall, with these sharp features and piercing eyes that feel like they see right through you. He always looks slightly unkempt—his dark hair messy but somehow perfect, and his beard neatly trimmed. There’s this intensity about him, like he’s carrying secrets he’ll never share.
His office is exactly how you’d imagine it: chaotic yet somehow organized. His bedroom is attached to the office, a testament to his workaholic nature. He spends his days working in the office, giving lectures in class, and returning to the same space, where he can head straight to bed simply by opening the door to the adjoining room. Books are scattered everywhere, and the air is filled with a faint aroma of coffee and old paper. His desk is a clutter of papers and journals, but it’s unmistakably his space. It feels alive, as if it holds fragments of his essence.
I first met him during my sophomore year. I took his seminar on modern literary criticism, and it completely changed how I saw literature. He challenged me, pushed me, made me feel like I could be more. Over time, our exchanges turned into debates, and I started to see him not just as a professor, but as someone who truly loves the written word. He’s not easy to approach, though. He keeps his distance, and his critiques can be harsh. But when he looks at you, really looks, it’s like the rest of the world fades.
This semester, I couldn’t resist taking his senior seminar on Romantic poets. I told myself it was because of the course, but deep down, I knew it was more. I’m not the only one drawn to him. His classes are always full, and getting a spot feels like winning the lottery. He has this way of making you feel like what you say matters, even when he’s challenging every word of it.
My best friend, Sophia Carter, doesn’t let me get away with much. “You’ve got that Sinclair look again,” she teased after our first class of the semester. “Honestly, Emma, if you were any more obvious, you’d be drooling on your notebook.”
“I’m not obvious,” I argued, but even I didn’t believe it. Sophia knows me too well. She’s been my rock through all the ups and downs of college, always ready with a sarcastic comment or a shoulder to cry on. She’s the only one who knows how much I admire Sinclair, though I’ve never told her just how deep it goes.
Sophia is slightly older than me. She’s not just my best friend but also my roommate. She works at Café Velvete, just down the street, to help manage her finances and have some money of her own.
That admiration hit its peak after our first assignment. Sinclair had asked us to write an essay on the theme of forbidden desire in Romantic poetry. I spent hours in the library, pouring over Byron and Keats, trying to find the perfect angle. When I finally turned it in, my hands were shaking. It felt like I’d put a piece of my soul on that paper.
The week leading up to submitting that essay had been a whirlwind of emotions. Nights stretched into early mornings as I wrestled with my thoughts, scrawling notes across a dozen notebooks and sticky notes. Sophia stayed up with me one night, sprawled across my bed with a mug of tea. “You know, Emma,” she said with a sly grin, “if Sinclair doesn’t love this essay, I’ll personally march into his office and demand an apology for his lack of taste.”
I laughed, though the tension still coiled tightly in my chest. “I don’t need him to love it,” I said, though my voice wavered slightly. “I just need to know he doesn’t think it’s a waste of paper.”
“Emma,” Sophia said, sitting up and looking at me seriously. “You’re an amazing writer. You’ve got this. Sinclair might be intimidating, but he’s not an idiot. He’ll see how brilliant you are.”
The next day, I sat in the front row of his class, my essay neatly tucked into a folder in my bag. Sinclair’s lecture on Byron was mesmerizing, his voice filling the room with a passion that made the poet’s words come alive. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, even as I scribbled notes furiously in the margins of my notebook. When the class ended, I lingered behind, waiting for the other students to leave. My heart raced as I approached his desk.
“Miss Hayes,” he said, looking up from a stack of papers. His eyes were as piercing as ever, and I felt like he could see straight into my soul. “Something I can help you with?”
“I... I wanted to hand in my essay,” I said, holding out the folder. “I spent a lot of time on it. I hope it meets your expectations.”
He took the folder, his fingers brushing mine briefly. “I look forward to reading it,” he said, his tone neutral but his eyes lingering on me a moment longer than necessary. “I’ll let you know my thoughts.”
Later that afternoon, as I was packing up my things after class, Sinclair called my name. “Miss Hayes, a word, please.” My stomach flipped as I followed him to his office. The door clicked shut behind us, and I suddenly felt like I was standing on the edge of something I couldn’t quite see.
He gestured to the chair across from his desk, and I sat, clutching my bag like it was a lifeline. He picked up my essay, his fingers skimming the edges of the paper. “Your work shows passion,” he said, his voice low and measured. “But passion alone isn’t enough. You lack discipline. Precision. If you’re serious about this, you need to refine your craft.”
I swallowed hard, my cheeks burning. “I’m willing to learn,” I said softly. “I want to be better.”
For a moment, he just looked at me, his eyes piercing. Then he nodded. “I can mentor you,” he said. “If you’re willing to put in the work.”
My heart leapt, but I kept my expression neutral. “Yes, absolutely. Thank you, Dr. Sinclair.”
“We’ll begin next week,” he said, his tone brisk. “Bring your essays. And Miss Hayes?”
I glanced up, meeting his gaze. “Yes?”
“Don’t waste my time.”
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. As I left his office, my mind was racing. This was my chance—to learn, to grow, and maybe, just maybe, to understand the man who had captivated me from the moment I first stepped into his classroom.
It’s an opportunity I can’t pass up, even if it means spending more time with the man who’s both inspired and unnerved me.
Andrew Bennett, a classmate who has been my academic rival since freshman year, has a knack for making his presence known in the most irritating ways. He’s tall, with sharp features and a permanent smirk that makes him look like he knows a secret no one else does. Over the years, we’ve sparred over class discussions, grades, and even the coveted front-row seat in Sinclair’s lectures. So it’s no surprise that he’s noticed the attention I’ve been getting from Sinclair lately.
In class, his jabs are subtle but pointed. “Well, I’m sure Emma’s interpretation must be flawless,” he says with a raised eyebrow after one of my comments, his voice dripping with sarcasm. I clench my pen tighter, forcing myself not to react. It’s as if he’s daring me to snap, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.
Outside of class, his competitive nature has morphed into something sharper, almost personal. He’s started cornering me in the library, throwing out backhanded compliments like, “I guess Sinclair really likes your work. Must be nice to get special treatment.” Each word feels like a barb, and I can tell he’s not thrilled about my new mentorship. The tension between us is palpable, a quiet war brewing beneath polite words and forced smiles.
Walking back across campus, the crisp autumn air filled my lungs, but it did little to calm my racing heart. The path beneath my feet felt surreal, as if I was walking a tightrope between exhilaration and uncertainty. I had no idea what the next few weeks would hold, but one thing was certain—my story with Dr. Sinclair was only just beginning.
