Page 86 of Office Hours
I nod, trying not to notice the way Liam’s hands ball into fists at his sides.
Liam’s voice goes cool, professional. “Good luck on the final, Dylan.”
Dylan grins, all teeth like a shark. “Thanks, my man. Means a lot.”
For a second, nobody moves. The three of us locked in a triangle, all sides quivering.
Liam looks at me, just once, eyes searching for something he’s not sure is there.
He says, “Simone—if you need anything, you know where to find me.”
I can’t speak, so I just nod.
He leaves, his steps echoing down the marble hallway.
Dylan lets his arm fall, then looks at me. “What was that about?” His voice is light, but there’s a hardness behind it.
“Nothing,” I say, though I’m not sure I believe it.
Dylan gives me a look, then shrugs. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”
We walk up the spiral stairs together. I look back once, but the aisle is empty now.
I wonder if it always was.
As we step into the bright, living room silence of the upper floors, Dylan’s hand finds mine. I let it. I don’t think about what it means, or who’s watching.
I just hold on, and walk into the light.
The dorm is quiet,for once. No shrieks of hallway drama, no click-clack of flip-flops, no distant cackle from the communal bathroom. It’s late enough that even the finals zombies have staggered off to their graves, leaving behind only the gentle white noise of forced air and the soft, metronomic patter of rain on the window. My desk lamp is off, and the room is lit by the blue haze of my laptop, which paints everything in ghost colors.
I sit hunched, arms curled around my ribs, trying to muster the focus to finish the Hawthorne paper. The words on the screen swim: “The psychological burden of shame in Puritan society is mirrored in the complex interiority of Hawthorne’s protagonists, especially as enacted by women.” I have read thesame sentence twelve times, and each time it comes back more cryptic, more meaningless.
My email inbox pings: new message.
For a second, I’m weirdly hopeful, like maybe it’s a sign from the universe. Maybe Andie, sending a meme to break the tension. Maybe a notification from the campus book store. Maybe, if I’m honest, Liam.
It’s from Liam.
No subject line, just a string of my student ID and the course code, as if even here he’s sticking to the rules.
I hover the mouse over the line, my finger trembling. I click, and the message opens in a blank white box, nothing to soften it.
Simone,
I want to sincerely apologize for any unprofessional behavior you may have experienced throughout the semester. Upon reflection, I realize my actions may have contributed to an uncomfortable environment, and that was never my intention.
Please rest assured that your final grade in American Literature will be determined solely by your academic performance, as outlined in the syllabus and departmental guidelines. If you have any concerns, you are welcome to contact the Academic Committee or the Dean’s office directly. I have also recused myself from any review of your graduate application, to avoid the appearance of conflict.
I wish you the best of luck with your finals, and in all your future endeavors.
Kind regards,
Professor Liam Thomas
My breath catches in my throat. I read it again, then again, each time trying to make the words mean something different.
There is nothing between the lines. No secret message, no ellipsis at the end, no hidden heart in the text. It’s the coldest, cleanest amputation I can imagine.
