Chapter Text
WEDNESDAY, WEEK ONE
"Welcome to History 372: Ecclesiastes and the Antichrist."
It's quiet enough in the lecture hall that you could hear a pen drop. People are confused, glancing around at each other like the other students would have an answer to… whatever the fuck is happening right now. To be fair, it's not entirely unheard of that a lecturer has some sort of problem that prevents them from teaching the semester, but you'd be lying if you said the timing didn't feel intentional.
Maybe it has something to do with the theological nature of the course, but you can't help but feel her sudden appearance has some sort of divine reasoning behind it.
You're pulled out of your thoughts by the squeaking of a dry-erase marker on the whiteboard, and your eyes refocus as you look at what your new professor is writing.
Faith as Historical Force: Martyrdom, Myth, and Social Control.
No one speaks as Professor Matthews turns back around, tossing the marker onto the podium beside her. Unlike most lecturers you've seen teach in halls similar to this, she doesn't use a microphone or anything to boost the distance her voice reaches. Her voice simply seems to carry through all corners of the room, the perfect volume for everyone to hear her comfortably.
"Faith has started wars, shaped nations, and rewritten history. It's not just belief—it's action born of belief." She doesn't speak from a PowerPoint presentation or some prewritten notes, but rather just from the vast pool of knowledge she harbours from her years of research, among other things.
"Now. I want you to imagine being a Roman. Not a senator or a soldier—but something ordinary. A baker. A midwife. A farmer…" She emphasises specific points with small hand gestures at nothing and no one in particular, her calm, deliberate tone drawing you into a state of listening you had never reached in a lecture before. "You've grown up with gods who need appeasing, temples that reek of incense and animal blood," she continues, stepping carefully around the front of the hall as her eyes skim over the students. "And then—suddenly—there's this whisper in the streets. A whisper about a man who died like a criminal, but was raised like a God."
You're enthralled, and don't even realise you've been typing away at plot points until you glance down at your screen and see a few vague notes written on the Google Doc that you have open. You aren't left to ponder your confusion much longer before she begins speaking again, in that same serene voice.
"Now, Christianity was never meant to be safe. It upended everything Rome believed about power, order, and divinity. Where Roman religion reinforced hierarchy, Christianity levelled it. Masters were no greater than their slaves, women could preach, and the poor were sacred. I'm sure you can imagine that this was more than subversive in a society built on status—it was dangerous."
Her voice doesn't quiet even as she walks to the opposite end of the hall, still floating around the air and surrounding you on all sides. "Refusing to burn incense to the emperor wasn't just spiritual rebellion—it was political sedition. Rome didn't care what you worshipped, so long as your taxes were paid and the empire was honoured. But Christians refused; they put their loyalty to Christ above their loyalty to Caesar. That wasn't just faith—that was treason."
"So, they would meet in secret. Bread was broken in catacombs and tenements. They called each other 'brother' and 'sister' regardless of blood or familial ties. If you were Roman, how would that look? Like a cult? A conspiracy? Something to fear?"
She makes her way back in the direction of where you're seated, her eyes sweeping the rows and lingering on no one in particular. But you can't help but wish they lingered a little longer when they pass over you. You can't help but want to be noticed.
"Belief, you can see, can be a kind of…" She pauses momentarily, considering her words before resuming her train of thought. "Revolution. It's quiet, at first. Until it isn't."
Her smile is disarming in a manner that would be dangerous if it were anyone else. For some reason, it doesn't seem dangerous when it comes to her.
"Now. Let's talk about what happens when belief meets violence. When the state says 'submit' and someone says 'no,' that's when we get a martyr."
She resumes her place beside the podium at the front of the room, but makes no effort to hide herself behind it. Matthews lets the class see her open body language and welcoming expressions willingly, captivating in a way you can't fully describe. Your fingers continue to fly over the keyboard as she talks, almost fully transcribing her words at this point. "Martyrdom isn't just about something as frivolous as dying. It's about how you die—and how others tell that death. The moment someone chooses suffering over submission, they stop being a person and start becoming a symbol. Martyrs aren't remembered for their lives. They're remembered for their endings."
"Rome executed criminals all the time—publicly, brutally. It was meant to be a warning. But with martyrs, it backfired. The execution became theatre. Spectacle. And the Christians sure knew how to tell a good story." She laughs gently, the sweet sound encouraging you to let out a quiet giggle in return.
Matthews spares a brief glance in your direction, her smile warming a part of your soul that you almost forgot existed between all the hardships you've faced in the past few years since starting your schooling. Her attention begins wandering as she speaks again, and that same feeling of wanting to be noticed returns.
"Jesus was crucified. So were thousands of others. But his story? That one survived. Because his followers didn't just mourn his loss in passing, they mythologised. Joan of Arc went to the stake as a heretic and rose from it a saint. Socrates drank poison not with bitterness, but clarity. These are not just victims. These are authors of their own endings. And their deaths, retold and reshaped, became much more powerful than the men who condemned them."
"So!" She clasps her hands together, taking a seat on an unused desk and looking out. "Ask yourself—what lasts longer? The empire that kills, or the story that survives it?"
A small wave of murmurs ripples through the class at that, people voicing generalised agreements and vague approvals at the way she voices her rhetorical question.
"Let's pivot." Her tone shifts to something slightly more clinical, as if she were peeling back layers that have sunk into the bone over time. "We've talked about death. Let's talk about control. Not by the state or the church, but by the self. Or rather—the illusion of self-control."
"Think about fasting. On the surface, it's about… humility. Submission. Suffering for the God you owe so much of your life. But look closer. The ones who fasted the longest in the early Church—the desert fathers, the virgin martyrs—weren't invisible. They were revered. Elated. Their bodies became the very site of devotion. The more they withered, the more sacred they seemed. That isn't humility. It's leverage."
She stands up from where she was seated and continues her slow, gradual pacing. Her steps are almost methodical in nature, feet perfectly placed to draw the most attention to her form. "Whipping yourself in the name of holiness sounds almost absurd to the modern ear. But, in medieval Europe, flagellants marched through towns—bleeding, chanting, and most importantly, drawing crowds. It was a protest and penance wrapped into one. A body made grotesque becomes a message: We are suffering for a reason. You should be paying attention."
"And then, of course, we cross the line—Heaven's Gate, Jonestown, the Solar Temple. The body no longer sacrificed for reform or redemption, but for escape. Transcendence. These aren't just tragedies—they're ruptures. Acts so extreme, they force the world to stop and look. That's the power of the body. It speaks in ways doctrine never can. Because when belief becomes unbearable, the body becomes the battleground. And pain—witnessed pain—is political."
You haven't even noticed the fact you stopped taking notes, just like you never noticed the fact you started. Instead, your gaze is drawn to the way her necklace swings as she moves. It's a symbol you've never seen before, and a part of you almost wants to blurt out a question on its meaning and why it feels holy, but you keep your mouth shut for now.
"Historically speaking, the surest way to make a belief system thrive… is to outlaw it."
"Rome tried everything—public executions, mass arrests, propaganda. None of it worked. If anything, it helped. Every time a Christian died in the arena, their blood wrote a louder story. Faith flourishes in the shadows. It clings to the margins. And when you try to burn it out—well." That same gentle laugh from earlier leaves her, and you swear you've never been more absorbed by a lecture in your life. "Fire spreads."
She tugs on the chain around her neck, adjusting the pendant to sit perfectly in the middle of her chest, and reluctantly, your eyes follow her lithe fingers. Her nails aren't painted, but they are perfectly manicured—a sharp contrast to the rest of her seemingly bohemian appearance.
"We see echoes of this today. Underground churches in authoritarian states. Fringe political movements. Extremist cells. Pressure doesn't extinguish belief—it crystalises it. Makes it purer. More urgent. More dangerous. And when you belong to something that isn't allowed—when the outside world calls it wrong, delusional, or even dangerous—it makes you cling tighter. It stops being just belief and it becomes identity. A kind of family. A refuge. A cause." A tense beat passes, her gaze sharpening for a moment. "Sometimes, all it takes is someone saying: you're not crazy. You're chosen. You were right all along. And that's how you build a movement."
Everything makes sense. It makes too much sense, and Matthews looks seemingly pleased at something you aren't quite sure of. That tension in the air drops, and her shoulders relax. Her voice smooths back over, and a warm rush of calm floods your senses. "Religion, at its most honest, is structure—a way to shape behaviour and reinforce hierarchies. Define who belongs—and who doesn't. That's not cynicism. That's design. Governments don't crumble because of riots. They crumble when enough people believe in something else. The people in power don't fear violence, they fear conviction in something that isn't them."
"Why do we build cathedrals with ceilings high enough to echo back our prayers? Why so much gold and grandeur when the gospels speak of poverty?" A moment passes as she lets her point simmer, nodding along to her own words. "It's not for the gods. It never has been for them. It's for the ones watching. Measuring. Controlling."
She opens up her satchel again, grabs a stack of papers from it, and places them on the same empty desk where she had sat earlier.
"We build cathedrals not for gods, but for the people watching us kneel."
The class is silent as she glances around, an inviting smile on her face. She lets the atmosphere settle for a handful of seconds, allowing people to digest her words and lecture content.
She continues speaking when she seems to be happy with how long things have sat for. "To recap: Martyrdom is theatre. Faith is a performance. And like any performance, it demands an audience—this is where myth comes in. Myth isn't about truth; myth is about memory. It's about legacy. Who gets remembered and who gets sanctified. Who gets to become more powerful dead than they ever were alive." She clasps her hands behind her back, bowing her head forward for a second. "Religious power—true power—isn't just sermons or scripture. It's what people do when they believe. What they'll justify. What they'll sacrifice. What they'll destroy."
Another pause. Her eyes scan the room. Then—
"For your first written reflection, I want you to tell me about a time you saw belief—any belief—used to control or change a situation. It doesn't have to be personal, but it can be. Just… be honest. That's all I ask."
Matthews returns to the desk, quietly arranging the papers she set down earlier. "Please, grab a syllabus on your way out. On it, my contact, information on office hours, grading rubrics and a breakdown of course content can be found. I don't use Canvas. There is one for the class, yes, but all coursework will be discussed in class. Please, get in touch if you have any questions or comments. I promise I'm a good listener." Another one of those gentle laughs reverberates from deep in her chest, the class returning it easily. "If you plan to stay in this class, I expect you all to show up curious. That is how faith starts, after all."
With that, she takes her belongings and leaves the lecture hall rather quickly, as if she had somewhere far important to be than here. And, honestly? She probably does. You feel like you've been bewitched and left to deal with the aftermath.
When you eventually get your faculties back in order, you head to the desk to grab a syllabus, standing off to the side as you wait for other students to filter out and make idle comments to each other.
"She grades off class participation? Seriously?"
"At least she's open to extensions on assignments…"
"Anyone got some PDFs of the readings?"
"My cousin had her for a guest lecture last year. Dropped the class by the second week."
Despite yourself, being someone who usually hates classes that grade on attendance and participation, you find yourself memorising her office location and hours. Everything about what you feel is unlike you, but it just feels right to be in this class. Like you were meant to be here. Like she already knew you would be.
This is a History-Theology class. You thought it would be an easy A that would help you tie off one of your dual minors, but here you are, finding yourself getting invested in what she's teaching.
You make a mental note to attend her first office hours.
Just to clarify something from the lecture.
THURSDAY, WEEK ONE
Despite this being your third year on campus, you still use an interactive map on your phone to find your way around. Dodging between facility and students, you walk into Dickinson Hall with one hand gripping your phone tightly enough that one would think you were expecting someone to try and take it from you, the other wrapped around one of your bag straps.
It's a little tricky to find her office, and you find yourself getting turned around more than once, but you eventually manage to locate it.
Her office door is propped open with an unlit candle in a stained glass jar, and the sound of wind chimes and gentle rain pours out into the hallway where you stand. As you move into the doorway, the soft scent of lavender wafts to you.
Sitting on the couch near the open window is Professor Matthews on what appears to be a brand new MacBook Pro, and she looks up at you with a soft smile as you enter.
"Y/n, correct? In my history three-hundred class?"
"That's me," you say, shuffling into her office as you tuck your phone into your back pocket. "Sorry. I know your office hours are only until four-thirty, but my last class doesn't get out until four, and it's all the way—"
"Please, don't worry about it." She shakes her head gently, gesturing to the hanging chair adjacent to the couch. "If my door is open, I am more than willing to talk with a student." She closes her laptop with a gentle click, putting it on the end table before clasping her hands and placing them in her lap. "What brings you by today?"
You place your backpack on the ground and take a cautious seat in the swinging chair, glancing around to ensure it doesn't show any direct signs of collapse. "Oh, uh, just…" You unzip the bag and pull your laptop out, cringing at the sound of fans whirring to life on the simplest task—literally just launching Windows—and try to find something to talk about while your ancient laptop tries to keep up.
"Just need some stuff clarified from yesterday's lecture, if that's okay?" Your laptop stutters as you try to move the cursor to open the browser, and your face flushes in embarrassment at the lack of technological prowess when compared to hers. "Just… the last part of the lecture. Once my, uh, laptop loads, I'll be able to tell you exactly what I need clarification on…"
Professor Matthews smiles as you fluster over your words, uncrossing her legs and standing, slipping on the sandals you didn't even realise she wasn't wearing. "There's no rush, darling. If it takes twenty minutes to ask your question, it takes twenty minutes." She walks to her desk and grabs a thermos and two mugs before returning to her seat on the couch. "While we wait, would you like some tea? It's tulsi, rose, and lavender. I find it helps me focus and find some inner stillness."
You glance up from your screen, eyes locking on the hand-fired clay mugs she places on the coffee table. "Oh, I… sure. I'm not usually a tea person… but it can't hurt?"
Her mouth twitches in amusement as she pours equal amounts of tea into each mug. "The fact that you are here, even after my office hours are supposed to be over, shows me that you want to learn, y/n. I am always available for an open mind." She looks up at you and places the thermos back down, taking her mug into her hand. She removes her sandals and tucks her feet under her legs again.
You finally manage to open the document you had been using for class notes, scrolling down to the last line your poor laptop managed to save. "It was… uh." You laugh, a little too loud, then wince. "Right around when you started talking about being an 'ordinary Roman.' That's when my keyboard decided to give out."
Professor Matthews tilts her head, mug cradled gently between her palms. "Really? she echoes, almost teasing. "Stopped right then?" A faint smile curves her lips. "Interesting timing for a machine to give out."
"That's the moment many students stop taking notes, you know. Or realise they've been writing without thinking. It's strange how the body responds before the mind even catches up."
There's a pause—brief, but heavy enough to register.
"Tell me," she says, voice soft but deliberate, "what part of that lecture stayed with you most? Was it the image of bread being broken in secret? Or the idea that a whisper could start a revolution?"
She sips her tea and offhandedly adds, "Some students resonate more deeply with these things than others."
You freeze up, back straightening at how she shifts the conversation from the lecture to you. "Uh… the… uh… the part about religion becoming identity. Found family, someone saying you're not crazy, that part of the lecture."
"Why?" She leans forward on the couch, pressing her elbows to her knees. "What in particular made that part stick out to you?"
You blink a few times, brows furrowing as you attempt to find an answer for that. "It's… I don't know. Something about people finding each other in faith, despite all sides saying that faith is bad, I suppose?"
She hums at that, appraising you for a moment before responding. "You say 'I don't know,' but then describe to me how that part of the lecture speaks to you." She tilts her body slightly to give you her full attention. "You seem deeply thoughtful," she says, stirring her tea without sipping. "Not just curious— receptive. That's a rare quality."
"Oh, thanks?" you murmur, closing your Inspiron and tucking it away as though it were never there in the first place. "I get… really into certain topics. It helps keep my brain active, you know? Something else to focus on except… the shit I should actually be focusing on." An idle finger taps against the mug you didn't even realise you'd picked up, and you gingerly bring it to your lips and take a slow sip.
It definitely isn't tea you'd drink on a regular basis. Its taste makes you feel oddly… steady. Earthy, then something softly floral, and a faint bitterness that lingers like the end of a thought. You can't decide whether or not you like it, but you keep drinking it regardless.
"The start of this semester was way rougher than I thought it would be," you chuckle, trying to deflect the tension. "Work-study has moved me from the kitchen to the grounds team, so now I'm responsible for… all the manual labour stuff. I liked cooking, but…" You let the thought trail off, shrugging in place of a conclusion. "Not like I have much a choice."
"And yet… you still found time to come see me."
She leans back in her seat, that soft smile lingering on her face.
"Now, the rest of the lecture…" She waves a dismissive hand, letting out a quiet laugh. "Try not to worry about it too much. I get the feeling that you grasp things quickly. I have no doubts that you'll greatly succeed in this course."
I have no doubts that you'll greatly succeed in this course.
You fight a blush that creeps up your neck from her sudden praise, opting instead to let out a quiet huff of air in the form of a laugh. "Oh, well… thanks. I hope I can live up to that expectation."
Professor Matthews grabs her laptop from the table, trading it for her mug of tea. "I know you can. You strike me as an intuitive person, y/n. Don't let that go to waste."
A moment passes in relative quiet as she opens up her MacBook while you work on finishing your tea, the only sound disturbing the peace being the soft ambient sounds she has playing in the background.
When the mug is empty, you place it gently on the table with a murmured "thanks," and stand up as quickly as you can without drawing attention to yourself. You almost forget to grab your backpack in the fog that has seemed to find its way into your mind over the simplest things, but throw it over your shoulder all the same.
"You're welcome to come by anytime," she adds as you reach the doorframe. "Some students… resonate more with this material than others." She smiles—that same disarming smile that she displayed earlier today in class. "I think you're one of them."
MONDAY, WEEK TWO
"I hope everyone had a good weekend," Professor Matthews opens with, sliding her glasses off and resting them on the speaker's podium at the front of the lecture hall. "And I also hope everyone had time to complete their journal entry?"
She takes out a dry-erase marker and writes her email on the whiteboard. "If you could send it to my email as soon as possible, that would be wonderful. Ensure you have the course name and project name in the subject line, otherwise I won't receive it properly."
When she turns to face the class again, her smile washes over you like warm water on high tide, and you resist the urge to visibly relax upon seeing it.
Your laptop struggles to open up Chrome, but you persist in spite of the circumstances and begin to type out an email with your assignment attached to the bottom of it. Before you can send it, Professor Matthews comes to a stop in front of your column of students and appears to look directly at you as she speaks. "However, I would like to hear some people speak in class today. Would anyone like to share a brief passage of what they've written?"
You shrink into your seat instinctively, your voice not wanting to share something personal to the class just yet, and you tell yourself Professor Matthews doesn't look away in disappointment when another student raises their hand to speak.
It's gonna be a long semester.
WEDNESDAY, WEEK TWO
"In The Gnostic Gospels, Pagels says that institutional religion tried to suppress…" You sigh, pausing the eyeliner you've been trying so hard to perfect before her class starts. With your free hand, you flick open the book you have on the bathroom sink and run your pointer finger down the page, pausing over a line you had highlighted. "Tried to suppress individual… spiritual authority by labelling it heresy. And I guess I was wondering…"
You trail off again, trying to think of a question related to that statement.
"If someone felt like they were experiencing something real, something spiritual—but it didn't fit into a formal structure…" You hum, moving to put on your lipstick—a classic red colour that stands out against your skin—as you continue to muse on the question. "Does that still count as a valid belief? Or is it just… delusion without recognition?"
Your reflection stares back at you as you place the lipstick back on the counter and lean towards the bathroom mirror, dabbing off the excess with a tissue.
You don't quite look like the version of yourself you're used to seeing.
Well, you do, but only the version of you that goes out with friends or dresses up for a party. The you that effort is put into, not the you that puts on sweatpants and the first shirt you find to go to class.
The you that you want people to see.
Or, maybe—just the version you hope she sees.
You meet your own gaze again, a little longer this time. Your lips look too red. Your eyes too open.
You don't look like yourself.
But maybe that's the point.
THURSDAY, WEEK TWO
You never asked the question. Not in class, anyway.
You told yourself it wasn't the right moment. That someone else raised their hand first, that the timing was off.
But, if you were being honest with yourself, you think that you just wanted her to hear it without anyone else listening.
You find her office door at exactly 4:29 PM, just in time to watch a student you don't recognize leave the room, saying something about how they appreciate the help. They pay you no mind as they walk off, putting their earbuds in and going about their day.
When you peek into her office, she's sitting on the same hanging chair you were in last week, wearing a loose dark teal button-up and black skinny jeans that she partially hides under knee-high tan leather boots.
Professor Matthews smiles softly at you when you knock on the doorframe, waving you in.
"Cutting it close," she teases gently, not in annoyance, but rather a fond, amused way of speaking. Like you're something she's already grown used to. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't show for today's office hours."
She gestures towards the couch with a flick of her wrist, that same casual grace she always carries. "But you know how I feel about open doors. If you're here, you're welcome."
You shuffle into the room, dropping your bag on the ground next to the couch as you take a seat on the plush cushions. "Oh, uh… thank you. I appreciate you making the time for me."
She laughs lightly at that, closing her laptop screen as she regards you. "Oh, please don't think of it as making time for you. I always enjoy speaking with students with a penchant for the material."
A beat passes before she rests her forearms on her closed laptop, clasping her hands together. "Am I correct in assuming you had a question to ask during the previous lecture? I could see the way your hand twitched when I asked if anyone had any questions, but you never asked. Why is that?"
You wring your hands together in your lap, always so easily unnerved at how smoothly she shifts the conversation to you and your motives behind your actions.
"It just…" You shrug half-heartedly, glancing down at your hands. "I guess it just didn't feel like the right time."
A barely audible hum reverberates from her throat as she watches your mannerisms with a careful eye. "Interesting. It didn't feel like the right time? Why is that?"
"I think I just wanted to talk to you privately… I… the question just felt like something that would be better talked about between us, rather than the whole class?" You finally glance back up at her, although your hands never stop twisting and intertwining with each other.
Your Professor nods, still paying close attention to your body language. "I see. Sometimes things need to feel personal to be understood, no?" She gives you a small gesture of her head, urging you to speak. "Go on. What's your question, y/n?"
The way she says your name makes a shiver go up your spine, and you swallow down the lump that's formed in your throat before you begin speaking. "Right. Yes. In—in The Gnostic Gospels, the author says that institutional religion tried to suppress individual… uh… spiritual authority by labelling it heresy. And I guess I was wondering that if someone felt like they were experiencing something…" You vaguely gesture to nothing with your hands before clasping them back together, subconsciously mimicking her posture. "Something real and spiritual, but it didn't fit into… like… a formal structure… does that still count as a valid belief? Or is it just delusion without recognition?"
"What a beautiful question," she praises you, tilting her chin up slightly. "But let me answer it with a question of my own."
"If someone calls it delusion, and someone else calls it revelation… what matters more? The experience, or who believes you?"
Your brows twitch as they furrow together, and you barely dodge her gaze as you look back at your hands. "I suppose… I didn't think about it like that."
You muddle over her question for a solid minute—in which Professor Matthews just stares at you the whole time—before finally coming up with an answer.
"I think the experience matters more. Obviously, there are always going to be people who don't believe in… well, whatever you believe in. That doesn't mean it should trump your beliefs or change your mindset simply because someone else doesn't have the same view as you."
A wide grin breaks her face, and she nods in approval of your answer. "That's a very brave answer." She says it softly, like it's just for you—not the sort of praise she gives freely. "You're right, y/n. Conviction doesn't need consensus. And often, those who believe most deeply are the ones who find themselves further from the crowd."
She drums her laptop with perfectly manicured nails, the quiet sound echoing amidst the soft sound of wind chimes and rain. "The prophets weren't followed because they were comfortable. They were followed because they were certain. That kind of clarity… it's unsettling to people who have never experienced it themselves."
She leans forward a fraction, voice warm and low. "Hold onto that instinct. Even if no one else affirms it, especially if no one else does."
Professor Matthews stands up from her seat and heads towards a bookshelf behind her desk, running her hand over the spines of various books before stopping on one in particular and pulling it out. She spins around and heads back to you, sitting on the unoccupied couch cushion.
"I want you to have this book. I read it while I was working on my doctorate, and it helped me reframe some thoughts that I couldn't find grounding for." She places the book in your waiting hands, letting her hands linger a little longer on the cover than necessary. "It's not a theology book, not really. It's about finding structure in the chaos of belief. You might recognize parts of yourself in it."
When she pulls her hands away, you get an unobstructed view of the title, The Spiral Staircase by Karen Armstrong. As your eyes roam the book that is very clearly well-loved and well-used, she continues speaking.
"You'll recognize her name from one of the assigned readings I listed in the syllabus. One of my favourite lines from her describes religion as ethical alchemy, which I think is a beautiful way to look at it."
"Oh, wow, are you sure?" You run your thumb over the title gratefully before looking up at her with a soft twitch of your lips upward. "I can return it to you once I've finished reading, if you want? Although it might take a little, between work and studying while trying to have a social life…" The thought trails off into a self-deprecating chuckle, which is something that Professor Matthews doesn't return.
You look down at the book again in her silence, still feeling its weight in your hands. It smells faintly of lavender and old paper, but maybe that's just her office. You go to say something else—something polite and grateful—but she speaks first.
"Are you working a lot outside of class, then?" Her voice is casual, but her eyes aren't. "You mentioned balancing work and studying. That can be… difficult."
A brief moment of hesitation passes before you nod. "Yeah, I'm part of the work-study program. It's not terrible, just… exhausting. I haven't really had a full weekend off since the semester started."
Her expression doesn't shift much, but her head tilts slightly, like she's filing something away. "And you're managing alright? Meals, housing, everything?"
"I mean, yeah?" You shrug at that, gripping the book a little tighter. "I'm… fine. Just tight, you know?" You force a laugh. "Cup noodles and whatever's on sale kind of tight. But I'm used to it."
Professor Matthews leans into your bubble, close enough that you can smell the floral notes of her perfume. "Well. If there's anything you ever need…" She pauses, and for a moment, you think she might leave it vague, open-ended, but she doesn't. "—money, food, help with books. Don't be afraid to ask. I mean that."
Your heart stutters. The offer is warm and sincere. So sincere it doesn't even feel real.
You shake your head, smiling a little too hard, like it's a joke you've told before. "I appreciate that. I do. But I'm okay, really."
"Of course." Her smile doesn't change. "Just know that the offer stands."
You float out of her office, nearly forgetting your backpack, and sit on the front steps of Dickinson Hall, looking down at the book clutched between your hands.
You tenderly open Professor Matthews—or, well, your copy of The Spiral Staircase, and find a message sprawled in her pen on the first page.
Religion is not about accepting twenty impossible propositions before breakfast, but about doing things that change you.
Just below that, in a fainter, older pen, the margin carries a different note:
Truth isn't what saves you. Practice does.
She didn't write it for you.
But somehow, it feels like she did.