The hallways buzzed with end-of-period chatter and the slamming of locker doors, but Callum barely heard it. His jaw was clenched, his stride stiff as he made his way down the corridor toward the guidance office, gripping a form between his fingers like it might bleed.
Transfer request.
He had filled it out that morning, before the bell, before her voice could curl around his thoughts again.
She needs to be moved out of my class.
He needed this.
It was the only line he hadn't crossed.
Yet.
He stepped inside the guidance office and was immediately greeted by Ms. Alvarez—soft-spoken, glasses perched too far down her nose. She glanced up from her files and smiled. "Mr. Hayes. Everything okay?"
"I need to talk about a class adjustment," he said, already feeling his pulse spike.
Her eyes narrowed, curious. "Which student?"
He hesitated. Say it. Say her name.
"Evans. Lara Evans."
Her brows lifted slightly, but she didn't comment right away. "That's a surprise. She's one of your better performers."
"I know," he said. "It's… not academic. I just think she'd benefit from a different environment."
She studied him for a moment too long. Like she could see it.
He hated how hot his collar felt.
"I'll see what I can do," she finally said. "Might take a day or two. Schedule's tight."
"Fine," he said, nodding once. "Thank you."
He turned to leave—and almost collided into her.
Not Evans. No.
Ms. Kim.
History teacher. Same age. Always put together. Curly hair pinned in a loose bun today, subtle eyeliner, a smart green blouse that somehow made her look like she had her life together.
She was objectively attractive. Warm. Single.
And the other teachers had definitely teased him about her.
"Whoa," she said, laughing a little. "Sorry. Didn't see you there."
"It's fine," he said, stepping back. "My fault."
They stood there for a beat too long.
He should go.
He really should.
But something in him—the same pathetic, grasping part that kept him awake at night—whispered: Try. Just try.
He cleared his throat. "Hey, um…"
She looked up, curious.
He didn't flirt. That wasn't his thing. He barely talked to anyone outside of teaching. But he forced a half-smile. "Do you… like coffee?"
Her brows lifted slightly. "I… yeah?"
He nodded like an idiot. "Good. That's… that's good."
Silence.
God, what am I doing.
"Because," he added, trying not to visibly die inside, "I was thinking… maybe sometime we could get some. Together."
Her eyes widened, surprised—but not unpleasantly. "Oh."
"Just coffee," he rushed to add. "Nothing weird. You know, as coworkers. Who drink things."
She laughed softly. "Are you asking me out, Mr. Hayes?"
He hesitated. His throat tightened.
Was he?
"I… might be," he said, voice low. "If you'd say yes."
She tilted her head, the smile still on her lips. "I'd say maybe. Depending on your taste in coffee."
He actually laughed. A real one.
"Alright," she said, brushing past him with a glance over her shoulder. "Convince me tomorrow."
He watched her walk away.
She was kind. Attractive. Normal.
Not her.
Not the girl who had broken his sense of self.
But maybe… if he could try, really try, this could work. It had to.
Right?
He turned down the hallway toward his class, just in time to see Evans coming out of the bathroom, a breeze in her skirt, a glint in her eye as she spotted him from a distance.
She smiled.
Slow. Subtle.
And all the heat drained from his body.
Because in that second, he knew.
He could drink coffee with Ms. Kim.
He could try to live a normal life.
But Evans would still be in his head.
And she wasn't leaving anytime soon.
Callum didn't bring it up again.
The coffee thing.
With Ms. Kim.
Cause he don't really want to use her to forget about this crazy thing to Evans. Ms. Kim is a good friend and co-worker.
But she passed by him that morning in the hallway—hair curled today, phone in one hand, smile easy—and gave him a small, expectant look. Nothing pushy. Just a reminder.
He nodded back. Said "Morning."
That was it.
He told himself he'd ask again Friday.
Tomorrow.
He wasn't avoiding it.
Not really.
Third period.
Same classroom.
Same unbearable stillness every time she entered.
Evans.
She took her seat, brushing a lock of hair over her shoulder, the scent of her expensive shampoo trailing behind like a ghost. He hadn't looked at her since the guidance office. Hadn't said a word. He was trying to be distant.
Professional.
But midway through the lesson—after a particularly botched explanation on quadratic inequalities—she raised her hand.
"Can I stay after class?" she asked, voice soft. "Just five minutes."
His heart stuttered.
The rest of the class didn't care—heads down, barely listening.
He gave a small nod. "Fine."
When the bell rang, and students filed out with their usual chaos of bags and chatter, she stayed seated. Quiet. Patient. Like she knew he wouldn't rush her.
He busied himself with erasing the board. A deliberate delay.
She finally stood, walked up to his desk. Not too close.
"Mr. Hayes?"
He looked up.
Her face was unreadable at first. Calm. Composed. But then her fingers twisted in the hem of her shirt just slightly, and her voice lowered.
"I heard I'm getting transferred."
He swallowed.
"Where did you hear that?"
"Guidance mentioned it. Said they were reviewing a change."
He nodded once, carefully. "It's not personal, Evans. It's just… a matter of spacing. The other section's smaller. We thought it might help you focus better."
Her lips parted like she might argue. But she didn't.
Instead, she looked down.
Quiet.
Then, softer: "I don't want to go."
He said nothing.
She glanced up, her eyes not wide or dramatic—just tired. Convincing.
"I know I don't talk much about home stuff. But it's kind of messy. My parents… they're barely around. I'm alone a lot. This class—it's stupid—but it's grounding. My friends are here. This time of day? It's the only time I actually feel normal."
Her voice wavered.
It should have sent alarm bells ringing. But it didn't.
Not when she looked so genuine. Not when her voice cracked just slightly on the word "normal."
Callum felt his throat tighten.
Goddamn it.
"This isn't about you," he said again. "I promise."
"I know," she said. "But please… can you talk to them? Just… just say you changed your mind? I'll be good. I won't stay behind. I won't talk too much. I just… I don't want to feel like I'm being pushed out."
She turned away after that, like she hadn't just buried a knife in his chest and left it there.
And for a moment—
He almost called out to her. Told her yes.
But instead, he sat at his desk in silence.
Stared at the form in his drawer.
And realized he couldn't go through with it.
Not now.
Not after she trusted him with that.
Not after she looked so human.
So hurt.