Teresa

Teresa pushed through the door smiling — she had seen Steven's bike outside. But the room went quiet. Wrong quiet. She found his desk. He was already looking. His hand moved; she flinched. Just his bag strap. But he saw her flinch. "My love," Clara sang, hands to her heart. "Did you write me sonnets?" Laughter erupted. Water in her ears, pressure, drowning.  On the nearest phone, her own handwriting: *I wish you would look at me with love.* Steven stood. Jaw working. Brows drawn. He crossed to her — the class hushed — and stopped too close.  "After class."  Not a request. A deadline.