I used to believe that teaching was the noblest profession.
I still do. But it's a belief I repeat less and less these days — like a line from a fading prayer. Some mornings, I sit at my desk before the students come in and wonder who I'm pretending for. The answer is always the same: myself.
The thing is, I know I used to be good. I had energy, purpose, even joy. But now I just go through the motions. The kids don't notice. They're too busy scrolling, chatting, living lives too fast to care about the dullness in a man's eyes.
But someone noticed.
And now… I can't sleep anymore.
It started four months ago. She stayed behind after class. Said she didn't understand the lesson. I remember thinking, she never stays behind, she's always in a hurry to leave. But I welcomed it. We talked. Just about math, at first. Then about her future. Her worries. She asked if I thought she was smart. I said yes.
And she smiled. The kind of smile you don't forget. The kind that makes you feel seen.
God, I should've said something. Should've drawn a line. But when you're thirty-two, single, and quietly falling apart — the wrong kind of attention feels like a rescue.
The next time she came to my desk, she wasn't asking about math. She told me she liked my voice. Said I had a calming presence. That it felt nice to talk to someone who didn't treat her like a child.
And I — I let her say it.
I let it happen.
I let her kiss me.
That moment has replayed in my head a thousand times. Not for pleasure. For punishment. Because now, that same girl hasn't come to class in three weeks.
And yesterday, I got a message.
"We need to talk. It's yours."
I sit in the empty teacher's lounge, watching the sunlight stretch across the floor, orange and gentle, like the evening's pretending everything's okay.
I feel sick.
If anyone finds out, I'll be destroyed. My license, my name, my family. Everything I've built, gone.
But worse than all that is the truth:
I don't know if I even deserve to be saved.
I hear the door open and close softly.
I flinch. It's not her.
It's a girl I've never noticed before.
She walks in with an air of defiance. Her uniform's untucked. A cigarette dangles from her lips. She doesn't look at me, not at first — just walks over to the window and lights it, blowing smoke into the dying light.
I want to say something. I'm a teacher, after all. But my voice doesn't work.
She finally glances at me. "Rough day, sir?"
"…I'm fine."
She doesn't press. Just leans her head back against the wall and exhales slowly. The scent of tobacco swirls through the quiet room.
"You don't look fine," she says softly. "You look like a man who's about to disappear."
I clench my fists. "You shouldn't talk to a teacher like that."
"I don't see a teacher," she replies, without venom. "I see someone who's about to break."
The words slice through me. I look away.
She stays silent. No questions, no pressure. Just her presence — like a shadow that doesn't need sunlight to exist.
Finally, something inside me cracks.
I speak.
"She's a student here," I say. "Was. She's not coming back."
She says nothing, just watches.
"I crossed a line. I didn't mean to. I thought… I thought I was helping her. But I got caught in it. In the attention. The softness. I forgot who I was supposed to be."
I expect her to gasp. Judge. But she doesn't.
I continue, the words rushing now, ugly and trembling. "She says she's pregnant. I don't know if it's true. I don't even know if she's okay. I keep checking my phone, but I don't have the courage to call her. I'm scared."
I bury my face in my hands. My voice is hoarse.
"I ruined her life. I ruined my own. And I deserve it."
Silence.
Then, softly: "Does she know you feel this way?"
"…No."
"Then maybe… maybe she hasn't decided yet whether her life's ruined."
I look up.
The girl — this stranger with smoke in her lungs and sadness in her eyes — sits across from me now.
"What you did… it was wrong," she says calmly. "But hiding won't fix it. Disappearing won't undo it."
I nod bitterly. "So what should I do? Face it and beg for forgiveness?"
She tilts her head. "You want to save her?"
"More than anything."
"Then don't think about saving yourself."
I go still.
"She might be angry. She might cry. But she deserves to choose. And she can't choose anything if you vanish."
"…I don't even know how to talk to her anymore."
"Then start with this: 'I'm sorry. I was weak. But I'm here now.'"
I stare at her.
"…Who are you?"
She gets up, brushing ashes from her skirt.
"Just someone who sees too many people stuck inside their own mistakes."
She starts toward the door.
I want to say something more, but she stops and looks over her shoulder.
"By the way… you should probably scold me for smoking."
"…It doesn't feel right," I whisper.
She gives a small smile. "Didn't think so."
Then she leaves.
And I sit there, staring at the smoke she left behind.
For the first time in weeks, I pick up my phone.
And I dial.
—You can't undo the past. But you can choose what kind of story follows the mistake.