Loving Blair

The Faculty of Humanities rose before me in its usual austere manner, as though it had grown from the stone itself, immune to the softness of the sun that slanted across the courtyard. I lingered under the narrow shade of a jacaranda, letting the warmth of the stones seep into my shoes, and pretended to study the screen of my phone while waiting. 

The courtyard smelled faintly of dust, asphalt, and something older, as if it were wood polish or wax left over from the weekend, but these were small, comforting details I liked noticing.

Bella was late.

A thought so ordinary it barely registered, yet it pulled at the edge of my patience. She always ran on her own schedule, and I had long since learned that fretting over it was useless. Still, waiting was annoying, and I had nothing better to do.

The hum of the campus carried on around me. Students drifted past, in pairs, in clusters, their laughter and muted conversations forming an indistinct, constant background. Then a black Mercedes sedan rolled to a stop in the drop-off lane, smooth and unhurried. My stomach betrayed me with a small, unwanted twist.

Milo.

Bella stepped out of the car with a lightness that seemed impossible to manufacture: off-white skirt swaying, bright yellow cardigan soft against her arms, pink plump lips curved in a smile that could convince anyone she was the embodiment of morning sunlight. She leaned into the car to whisper something to Milo, pressed a small kiss to his cheek, and then turned toward me, her eyes bright and unbothered.Milo remained in the driver’s seat, and I noticed, as Bella turned her back, that he gave me a small, confident nod. A slow, deliberate glance that reminded me sharply why he had always had that effect on me. It wasn’t meant for her; it was meant for me.

I looked away before my cheeks betrayed any sign of recognition.

“Blair!” Bella called, bounding toward me, her bag jostling against her hip. “Sorry! Milo insisted on talking for an extra...oh, never mind. Don’t tell me you noticed.”

“I noticed,” I said dryly.

She didn’t hear it. She never did. “Are we late? I hate it when people walk in five minutes after, I don’t want us doing the same...”

“Relax, we’re fine,” I replied. My voice carried a little more steadiness than I felt.

Her relieved laugh was bright enough to make me ache in a quiet way. “Good. I’m already starving. I need, like, six snacks a day. Minimum.”

“You need,” I said, “to stop accidentally fasting.”

She laughed again, linking her arm with mine as we climbed the stone steps toward the building. I let her. She had a way of making ordinary spaces feel lighter, more welcoming, even when I wanted only to observe and not be part of the energy.

The hallway inside was cooler, with a faint hum from the air-conditioning cutting through the warmth outside. Students drifted past us, chatting and laughing. A few glanced at the noticeboards or checked their phones, but the corridor’s narrow length lent it a quiet intimacy that I found comforting. The smell of dust, wood polish, and faintly of books lingered, it was an aroma that always made my chest tighten in a familiar way, as if the space itself were holding its breath.

The elective classroom waited at the end of a side corridor. The walls along the way were lined with faded posters, ethics debates from past years, quotations from philosophers, diagrams about moral reasoning and human conduct. The corkboard sagged under the weight of forgotten memos. Bella pushed the door open with her usual flourish. I wanted to open the door first... I rolled my eyes slightly, and of course she didn’t notice.

I stepped inside, taking in the room at a glance. Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed sunlight to stretch across the worn wooden floor, dust motes floating lazily in the beams. The desks were neat, arranged in precise rows, each one a small island of polished wood. It felt... quiet. Intentional. Like the room itself expected respect. I settled into a middle seat; Bella plopped down beside me, bouncing slightly before adjusting herself.

Other students filtered in gradually. The atmosphere hummed with small murmurs until the door clicked open again. And then, almost imperceptibly, the room shifted.

He entered.

Lucien Lorimer. I knew his name from the syllabus entry. His presence, though subtle, felt like a slow current moving through the room, drawing attention without effort. Tall, strong, shoulders square and controlled. His hair was dark, neat, and his full beard gave him a solemn, distinguished air. His skin was pale, yes, but pale in a way that suggested refinement rather than weakness. His clothes were simple yet old-fashioned: dark slacks, crisp shirt, and vest that somehow belonged to a different century.

He moved with purpose. Each step, each gesture measured, deliberate. He was not loud, but the room leaned forward as if listening with the walls themselves.

Bella nudged me softly. “Wow,” she whispered.

I nudged back, silently. I had no words. There was nothing overt, nothing theatrical, just a presence that demanded observation.

He laid a stack of heavy, leather-bound books on the front table. No laptop. No notes. Just books with edges worn, gilded titles, spines creased from use. I was halfway tempted to reach out and touch them, to feel the texture, though I knew it would be rude.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

His voice was smooth, deep, measured. Even the ordinary syllables carried weight. The room quieted completely. I watched him, noting the slow cadence of his words, the deliberate arch of his brow, the precise way his hands rested behind his back.

“This course,” he continued, “will examine the principles of ethics, the nature of human conduct, and the moral dilemmas that shape our decisions. We will ask questions that may not have answers, and yet, in asking, we find the contours of our own understanding.”

He paused, eyes sweeping the room. His gaze lingered on me for the barest moment. I felt a strange pull, a weight that made my chest tighten, though I could not explain why. I looked away immediately.

Half way through the class class, “Who can tell me,” he said, “what is the measure of a good action?”

Bella’s hand shot up. I hesitated. A familiar tug of competition, unbidden, unwelcome, prompted me to raise mine as well. I always disliked when she did that... Answered questions or asked questions in the class, just so people would say she was smart...Well, just so the lecturer’s would say she was different and smart...I always brought up a nauseating feeling from the depths of my stomach.

He glanced at Bella first. “Yes?”

“It... depends on the consequences?” she said brightly.

“A start,” he murmured. Then, slowly, “Anyone else?”

I answered. “A good action is not only measured by its consequences, but by the intention and awareness behind it. One must consider the act, the context, and the understanding of its effects.”

A subtle nod. “Better.”

The classroom shifted slightly. Bella’s eyes met mine for a brief, sheepish moment. I felt that ripple again, the unspoken tug-of-war of intellect, of approval, of recognition. I hated it. But I couldn’t deny the thrill.

The lecture continued, moving into examples of ethical dilemmas in human history, hypothetical scenarios, and thought experiments designed to make the students squirm with uncertainty. I scribbled notes, occasionally glancing at Bella, noting her eagerness. She was radiant, and brilliant.

By the time the class ended, I felt stretched thin, alive in a quiet, contemplative way. Bella darted ahead to the bathroom, and I lingered to gather my books, feeling the soft hum of the room fade as the door clicked shut behind the last student.

And then I saw him.

Halfway down the hallway, leaning against an office door. The corridor was quiet here, almost empty. His hand rested lightly on the wall, shoulders tensing ever so slightly.

A cough escaped him, rough, uneven, almost scraping. Another followed. My chest constricted.

I paused. Should I move closer? Offer assistance? Water? Words?

Another cough, quieter, rasping. I glimpsed something dark at the edge of his knuckles, almost imperceptible. My stomach tightened again. I told myself it was nothing, perhaps a scratch, perhaps a throat irritation. Yet something in me refused to step away.I watched, frozen by the mixture of curiosity and uncertainty.