The Student And The Teacher

When most people talk about their past, they try to keep it short and sweet. Like skimming over an old scar. Whether it’s to avoid reliving the pain or just out of politeness, you learn not to dwell too long.

But that’s just how things worked in my world, I guess.

Aeris spoke for far longer than I expected, maybe longer than I was comfortable with. She didn’t hold back. Her memories came out like a dam finally cracking open.

That’s not to say I didn’t care, or that I didn’t feel for her. I did. Deeply.

It’s just… maybe it’s better if you hear it in her words instead.

“I really did try.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, the words spilling out like they’d been waiting too long to surface.

“Every day, I told myself, ‘Today, I’ll get through to him. Today, I’ll make a difference.’”

Aeris sat across from me, hands clasped in her lap, eyes fixed on some invisible point between us, something buried too deep to see, but impossible to ignore.

“He smiled less and less. But I thought… maybe if I just gave him time. Maybe I was pushing too hard. Maybe - ”

Her fingers curled tighter. Shoulders tensed. The words stuck in her throat.

“I wanted to help. I really wanted to help him. But it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.”

A long silence followed. Her eyes shimmered, unfocused.

“And when I finally realized just how bad things had gotten…”

Her voice broke.

“…he was already gone.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The air between us had thickened—quiet, heavy, unbearable.

Her tears came quietly. No sobs. Just a slow tremble, and the wet sheen gathering in the corners of her eyes. A silence passed, too long to be comforting, too short to be healing.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand and looked away, embarrassed.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

She inhaled, deeper this time, but still shaky.

“I guess… I was always drawn to broken things. Maybe because I wanted to believe I wasn’t alone in being broken too.”

She stirred her stew absently, the soft clinking of her spoon against the bowl the only sound in the room.

“I was a teacher,” she said. “I tried my best to help one of my students who seemed like he was struggling. But it wasn’t enough.”

Her voice trembled as she repeated it, like she was trying to convince herself of something.

“He laughed like life itself didn’t hurt,” she said, more softly now. “Even when I knew it did. He wore that smile and dry sarcastic humor of his like armor. And every time I thought I saw through it, he made sure to reinforce it again.”

I didn’t say anything. Somehow, I knew this wasn’t a conversation. It was something else. A confession, maybe. Or a wound she couldn’t hide anymore.

“I thought that I was helping… but maybe, maybe I was just making it worse.”

The dam broke.

“He always had some witty comment ready,” she said, a tired smile forming, fleeting. “It would come out cruel, he didn't mean it with any malice though. He just didn’t know how to be honest. Not with others… not with himself.”

I pictured him, faintly. A shadow more than a person. Slouched posture. Eyes that saw too much. A crooked grin meant to misdirect.

“Anytime someone got close, he’d turn it into a joke, usually at his own expense. He was afraid of being seen, I knew all too well why.”

Her voice wavered again.

“People thought he was just quiet. Cold. But he wasn’t. He saw everything. Like a scientist behind glass, watching people he could never quite reach.”

She hesitated.

“He once told me… ‘The problem with observing people is that the more you understand, the lonelier it feels. The more distance forms, and eventually, you just start to dissociate.’”

She wiped at her eyes again with her sleeve, but the tears kept coming.

“Eventually, he stopped showing up to our little after-school meetings. Called them ‘therapy sessions.’ Said he was tired of people pretending to care. I told myself he just needed space.”

Her tone darkened, tinged with shame.

“The last thing he said to me was… ‘Thank you for trying. I appreciate it, truly. But some people are just born to be like this, I guess. To suffer. Never to be saved.’”

She swallowed hard.

“He smiled near the end. I remember it clearly. And I did nothing. God, why didn’t I do something? I should’ve known.”

My stomach twisted. I didn’t know the kid. But somehow, I did. I saw the ghost of him in every late-night thought I never spoke aloud. In every time someone asked if I was okay and I just smiled.

“I had to keep teaching,” she said. “Had to keep smiling for the other students. But something in me died that day.”

She gripped her hands together, white-knuckled. Shaking.

And then,

“You remind me of him,” she whispered.

I froze. Unsure whether I should feel honored, or afraid.

“Not in how you act. Not exactly. Just… in the way you hold your sadness. Like it’s sacred. Like it’s the only thing that’s truly yours. The way you just go along with everything, never questioning your place. As if the world’s already decided where you belong, and you’ve just accepted it.”

She finally looked up. Her eyes red and swollen, but steady.

“You know… it doesn’t have to be like this. I can tell a lot about you, just from how you react. That question you asked me, about what world I’m from… You didn’t ask out of curiosity. You asked because you don’t believe you belong in the same world as everyone else.”

Her voice softened.

“You think you’re alone. Like you’re living in some kind of isolation ward.”

Then, quieter still:

“I swore… if I ever got another chance, if I ever met someone like him again, I wouldn’t let them fade away. Even if they didn’t ask for help.”

We sat in silence. Her words hung in the air, fragile and dense, like the moment before glass breaks.

Then she let out a slow breath, one she must’ve been holding for years.

“Sorry. That was… a lot,” she said, trying to smile. “I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”

I thought about saying something clever. Something to ease the weight.

But I couldn’t. Not after hearing all that.

Not after hearing about the one she couldn’t save...

The way she treated me began to make more sense, she came across as a nurturing teacher. And how she would always seem to worry about how I felt, she wanted to protect me. Or rather, to protect herself.

I was aware of her habit of leaving the dining hall five minutes early so I decided to keep my own past to myself, at least until next time. With that in mind, I figured out exactly what I should say:

“Funny,” I spoke quietly, resting my spoon in the empty bowl. “I was gonna complain about the cold stew and the terrifying architecture of this place...”

She glanced up, her eyes still a little red, but focused now. Present.

“...but it kind of pales next to walking through memory-shaped hell.”

That earned the smallest reaction. Just a breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, but something between. A soft exhale that told me she heard me. That she appreciated I didn’t treat her story like something to tiptoe around or label as too sacred to touch.

The silence between us settled, no longer heavy, just... full.

As the clock on the far wall gave its quiet cue, five minutes to the hour, I stood up, dusted off my hands, and extended one toward her.

“Come on. I know your escape schedule by now.”

She looked at the hand for a moment. Then took it. Her fingers were cool, but not trembling anymore.

I helped her up, steady and slow.

“Next time, I’ll talk,” I said as we stepped away from the table. “Might not be as poetic as yours… but I promise the stew will still be cold.”

That time, she smiled. A real one. Small, but lasting.

And for now, that was enough.

[Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in the chapter's release. I'm trying to do one daily but I got caught up with some stuff. Also I'm not sure if I can keep up a daily release schedule either, but, I will still try my best. If you've made it this far, thank you so much, and I hope you've enjoyed this story and that you'll continue to enjoy it.]