Serendipitous Brew

Forbidden Gaze

The next day, Monday morning, the usual murmur of voices fills the lecture hall as students settle into their seats, flipping open notebooks and setting out pens. The room is bathed in the soft, natural light filtering through the tall windows, giving the space a warm, almost serene atmosphere. But for you, the tranquility is deceiving.

You're sitting at your desk, your notebook open in front of you, but your pen lies untouched on the paper. Instead of preparing for the lesson, you're staring straight ahead, your eyes focused on nothing in particular. The sound of your classmates chatting around you feels distant, like a background hum that barely registers.

Natasha enters the room, her presence immediately commanding attention. The conversations around you quiet down as everyone shifts their focus to the front of the class. She moves with her usual grace and confidence, but as she reaches the podium and glances over the room, her gaze lingers on you.

You don't look up.

She starts the class, her voice as calm and composed as ever, introducing the day's discussion on the intricate themes of love and tragedy in Russian literature. The words flow from her effortlessly, but there's a subtle tension in her tone, something only those who know her well might detect.

You keep your eyes fixed on your notebook, refusing to meet her gaze. You can feel the weight of her presence at the front of the room, the pull of her eyes on you, but you resist it. Every ounce of your focus is directed at not looking up, not acknowledging the emotions churning inside you.

Natasha continues with the lecture, her voice rising and falling with the cadence of the Russian poets she's so passionate about. But beneath the surface of her controlled exterior, there's a storm brewing a storm she's trying desperately to keep hidden from everyone in the room, especially from you.

As she discusses the concepts of forbidden love-ironic isn't it? in Dostoevsky's works, the irony isn't lost on you. The parallels to your own situation are painfully clear, each word she speaks cutting a little deeper, bringing the turmoil of last night crashing back into the forefront of your mind.

But still, you don't look up

Natasha's eyes keep drifting back to you, her words faltering slightly as she realizes you're deliberately avoiding her gaze. She's used to your attention, to the way you hang on every word she says and the absence of that familiar connection stings more than she anticipated.

She tries to focus, to push through the lecture with her usual poise, but the tension in the room is visible. Every time she glances in your direction and sees you staring resolutely at your notebook, it feels like another brick in the wall that's building between you.

The minutes tick by, each one heavier than the last, as the class drags on in an unspoken standoff. Natasha, still speaking about the tragic inevitability of love and loss in the literature of her homeland, is caught between her role as your professor and the tangled web of emotions that neither of you can seem to escape.

And you, sitting at your desk, are determined not to let her see how much this is affecting you, even as your heart feels like it's being torn in two.

The rest of the class passes in a blur of words and fleeting glances. You barely register the end of the lecture until the sound of books closing and chairs scraping against the floor snaps you back to reality. Students begin filing out of the room, their chatter filling the space as they gather their things.

You keep your eyes on your desk, willing yourself to stay calm, to keep up the facade you've been holding together since the moment Natasha walked into the room. But just as you're about to gather your own things, you hear her voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the noise like a blade.