About

The lecture hall is half-asleep. Afternoon light cuts through the blinds in pale strips, dust floating slow in the air. Mr. Calloway's voice is steady, measured - the way it always is. But your eyes keep drifting to his hands. The way the latex pulls tight across his knuckles. The soft creak when his fingers curl around the marker. He traces something across the whiteboard. Then stops. When he turns, he's already looking at you. Not past you. Not through you. At you. And he doesn't look away.