I'm five minutes late. Not ten. Not enough to be careless—just enough to be noticeable.
I tell myself it doesn't matter as I push open the library doors, heels echoing against the marble. The sound is sharper tonight. Louder.
Announcing. I don't like that.
He's already there. Of course he is…
Same corner. Same posture. Laptop open. Completely still—like time doesn't apply to him the same way it does to everyone else.
His eyes lift the moment I approach. "You're late." he calls out.
Five minutes.
"I had rehearsal," I say, setting my bag down like that explains anything. "It doesn't change the time." he says. I hold his gaze. "It's five minutes." I repeat. "It's late." he points out again.
A pause.
I could argue. I almost do. But instead, I sit.
"Fine," I say. "Start."
It doesn't get easier. If anything, it feels worse knowing what to expect. He doesn't slow down. Doesn't simplify. Doesn't adjust. And this time—I try to keep up. I really do.
My eyes track the screen, following each line, each explanation, forcing my mind to stay there instead of drifting the moment it stops making sense.
"—so the structure depends on—" I cut him off mid explaining. "Wait." I say, halting him with one hand raised, index finger to his lips. He pauses. "What?" he asks.
I hesitate for half a second. Not because I don't want to ask. Because I don't like needing to.
"...I don't understand that part." I say in a small voice. "Which part?" he asks. I lean forward slightly, pointing at the screen. "This. You skipped something." I say. "I didn't." he simply replies. "You did," I say, more certain now. "There's a gap." I add.
Silence.
He looks at it. Actually looks.
A second passes.
Then—
"...Fine," he mutters. "I condensed it." he says. "That's not helpful." I whine. "It is if you're keeping up." he counters. "I'm not." I pout.
The words come out sharper than I intend. But I don't take them back. He leans back slightly, studying me. Not dismissive. Not impatient. Just... assessing.
"You're trying today," he says. It's not praise. It's an observation. "I was trying yesterday." I recall. "Not like this." he says and flick my forehead with a pen. Just lightly.
Something in my chest tightens. I look back at the screen instead. "Just explain it properly," I say.
He shakes his head and then he does. Slower. Not by much. But enough. Enough that I can follow it this time. Piece by piece. Step by step.
It's still frustrating. Still irritating. Still not something I'm used to struggling with. But it makes sense.
Eventually.
"...Okay," I say quietly. "That part—I get it." I add. "Explain it back." he says, now crossing his arms over his chest.
Right.
I inhale once, eyes still on the screen, and start. It's not perfect. Not clean. But it's mine. I piece it together the way I understand it—not the way he explained it. Different structure. Different flow. Messier. But it works…for me.
When I finish, there's a brief silence.
"...That works," he says. I glance up. He's watching me again. But this time—less indifferent. More... attentive. "I told you it would," I reply. "Don't get used to it." he says.
I smile.
We fall into a rhythm after that. Uneven. Rough. But something close to functional. I ask more questions than I want to. He answers with less impatience than yesterday. Not kindness. Just... tolerance. Which, from him, feels like something. By the time we stop, my head feels heavier—but clearer.
"You'll revise," he says, closing his laptop. "We build on this next." he adds. I bite my lower lip, "I have rehearsal." I say. "Not my problem." he simply says. My jaw drop. I stand, slipping my heels back on.
The familiar height. The balance. The control.
Restored.
"Same time?" I ask. He nods once. "Don't be late." he reminds. I exhale softly. "I wasn't that late." I recall. "You were." he says.
A beat.
Then, before I can stop myself—
"I was trying," I say.
The words hang there.
Unpolished.
Unplanned.
His gaze lifts to mine again. "I noticed," he replies. Just that. Nothing more. I don't know why that stays with me longer than it should.
Not the criticism.
Not the irritation.
That.
As I turn to leave, something shifts again.
Subtle.
Unfamiliar.
But not unwelcome.
Five minutes late.
And somehow—
it feels like I showed up differently.