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It all came crashing down — she was definitely failing the semester.
As a student in a university as prestigious as UVP — which she could still hardly believe being in, even as she was about to reach the end of her third year out of the four year program — she knew she could not afford to fail.
It was not as though she was bothered by the muffled chirps of her family members from her home planet every time she comes home — which is to say, hardly, and yet — but it was not as if she could really ignore them. After all, who else is going to finance this aeon-forsaken, poor excuse of a student with no means of graduating on time?
The child inside her weeps, raw and unfiltered screams of help gnawing at her chest, and yet there was nothing she could do to hush them — much less mend them. She mumbles a quiet apology as she forcibly pushes them down, the usual back and forth every time a crash out is long overdue. There was no room for emotions to flow freely, they didn't have any right, she didn't have any right. An external battle is taking place, much stronger than the screams now turning into pathetic whines, much more demanding than her body pleading for rest.
She scoffed at the thought. Rest. It is one a soldier deservedly gets after a hard-earned victory in battle. There was no victory in this situation. There wasn't even any hard-earning. Was she even fighting anymore?
What was she doing, when work was piling up all at once and she had all the time in the world to do them one by one, willing her heart and mind to cooperate for once so they don't feel the heavy weight of stress mixed with anxiety, as time so cruelly does not stop just for her?
What was she doing, when it is her mind that pleads at her heart to find joy in engaging in tasks that serve them both well in the long run, mundane as they may be?
What was she doing, when it is her heart that tugs lightly but ever so desperately at her mind to generate coherent thoughts, essential in understanding the technicalities of her degree program?
What was she doing, when both finally scream at each other, with the name-calling — of one calling the other an idiot airhead, of the other calling them cold and uncaring — deafening her ears and the turmoil seeping slowly through her physique, rendering her barely functioning?
Shame steams out of her body, her head hanging low as she walks through the halls of the college building. As she tried to pry herself out of an upcoming spiral, she didn't notice the larger figure walking straight to her direction, shoulders bumping with a slight force. When she turns around to mumble her apology with all the energy she could muster, she notices the larger figure to be the one professor she admires, her eyes brighten ever so slightly — yet with her current standing in his class, shame fills her up once more.
Before she could walk away at an accelerating speed after their shared apologies, the professor calls out to her.
"Meet me in my office, if you have the time," he says with a firm but gentle voice. He was not smiling, but he had a rather soft look on his face. He did not await her response.
Professor Ratio was intimidating, one of the many reasons why she cries herself to sleep at night. Yet she was still drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. She recognizes his kindness, the overwhelming passion to spread knowledge, the love for humanity. All the more reason why she was afraid. She couldn't afford to take away some of that hope: that it gets better, even for people like her.
“If you have the time.”
The professor's voice echoes in her head. When has she ever had the time? More importantly, actually, what does he need to see her for? Surely, her grades had not gone that terrible for him to be concerned like this.
Well, who was she kidding? How in the hell would this poor excuse of a student think that she'd ever survive the 97% mortality rate?
But that was precisely why she was confused. Normally, with the huge chunk of students dropping his classes due to this anomaly in their usually-great-sometimes-average-but-never-failing list of grades, wouldn't he be used to it by now? Has he ever had to call any of his students in his office for their failing grades? Not that she was one to gossip, but she's pretty sure she might have heard of it already if the esteemed professor ever has.
But oh well, might as well rip off the bandaid. She'd heard him berate people thousands of times already as if it was her morning radio news, he might as well have berated her herself.
Not now, though. She thinks she has to mentally prepare for it, what with the tension coiling in her gut.
When she gets home that night, she does her nightly routine of doom scrolling, mental self-slapping, poor attempts at doing homework, feeling a lot like an imbecile for not understanding concepts that she should already have, rinse, and repeat.
Idly, she wonders if she should have prepared that letter of intent for dropping the professor's class in time, like her intuition had always told her.
But when has she ever listened to her intuition?
She did not go to sleep that night, repeating this routine for hours on end, until it was finally time to meet the professor.
The ever-so-nervous student clutches at what seemed to be the fourth cup of coffee for that morning, barely just looking presentable as she hypes herself up for what is about to come, hovering over the professor’s door before giving it a hesitant knock. When a response is yet to come after a few seconds, she knocks once more, louder this time. She hears a slight clack at the doorknob, startled. Must have been the caffeine.
“You’re late,” the professor does not hesitate to give the first nag of the day. When has he ever set a specific time? Honestly. This was going to be a long talk, wasn’t it? “Nevermind,” he looks her up and down, eyes lingering shortly on the coffee on her hand before meeting her eyes once more. Strange. “Come in.”
She steps into the office, eyes wandering around the room, taking it all in. She observes the pristine material on the furniture, shelves filled with books, categorized in a way only the professor understands. Then her eyes find the sole painting in that room, its looming presence capturing the attention of everyone when it gets to their line of vision ever so slightly, the sheer size of it sending a shiver down her spine.
Professor Ratio does not follow the direction of her eyes. Instead, his gaze returns to the cup of coffee on her hand. He gestures at it. “I cannot help but wonder how much of that you have already consumed.”
The student blinks at him. Then, as the realization slowly sets in, she glances at the cup loosely hanging by the rim on the tip of her fingers. “Oh, this? Well,” a nervous chuckle escapes her throat as she fails to maintain eye contact, scratching her face on instinct. “Let’s just say an unhealthy amount.”
Before the professor can respond, she clears her throat, averting the conversation onto the actual reason why she’s there in the first place, attempting to meet his gaze once again. “So, professor Ratio,” she didn’t realize how fast her heart was beating as she exhaled a shaky breath. “What do you need me for?”
The professor hums. A pause. He sits down on his own office chair, gesturing at the chair in front for his guest to take pleasure in sitting as well. “You may set the cup down at the table.”
This odd fixation at her cup of coffee is getting all the more confusing to her, but she complies as she sits down hesitantly on the guest chair. She wills for him to continue, eyeing him expectantly without a word.
“I am certain of your expectations prior to this meeting.” Who would’ve guessed. “But I rather we discuss something else.”
She blinks at him for what felt like the 100th time today. Although confused, she still hasn’t said a word, willing for him to continue once again. Taking her silence as a signal, he expounds. “It seems you are not in the optimal mental condition to be continuing further in this semester.”
Now her mouth gapes at that. And then as she fully processes those words, rage simmers low at her chest. How could he even say that? More importantly, what could she have possibly done for him to make such an… astute observation?
Now, astute as it may be, she was still rather befuddled as to why the professor would be concerned with such a relatively trivial matter. Your mental condition is not trivial.
Shut up, you know what I mean.
She was aware of her underperformance. She was much aware of how this will affect her future, her near-future even. She was aware of how much her lack of care for her underperformance had further worsened this. She had always berated herself for it, after all. But regardless, it did not stop her nihilism. The university had, perhaps, sucked the soul out of her. Was it the ruthlessness of Ratio’s teaching methods? Was it the motto of the university constantly being shoved at her face, as she fails to follow this, fails to see how long she would keep pretending that she upholds the values of the university?
What would the professor do, if she tells him she does not really care for the pursuit of knowledge?
What would the professor say, if she tells him the only reason she was here was because of career opportunities that would land her a huge sum of money?
If she were to be completely honest, she was the very epitome of a student that someone like Ratio would absolutely loathe. Yet she could not bear to see any traces of disappointment in his face when it’s directed towards her. The festering need to flee from the room grows stronger, but she swallows it all down.
Not realizing how long the silence had been filling the room, the professor had taken that as a signal to continue. Under normal circumstances, had she not been frozen still, she would have already protested. But curiosity fills her mind, even with the inane way the conversation began.
“I apologize. I did not mean to offend.” She deflated at that, now feeling bad for getting into a defensive stance so quickly. “I merely stated what I have observed for the past two months that you have taken attendance in my class. Although we have only been meeting for an hour twice a week, I cannot help but notice the differences in your demeanor throughout. It got me curious as to how you were doing in your other classes, so I personally spoke to your other professors.
“Although some were not as helpful as I had expected of them, the others all provided the same responses. I cannot help but be concerned, and although I am aware of your struggle to understand the concepts in which I try to discuss amongst you and your classmates,” The student looks away at that. The professor notices the implications of this, she’s sure, but his voice remains firm. “Your pattern of attendance as well as your overall performance led me to think that this was not just, as what you kids would call it, a ‘skill issue.’” She huffs at that, a playful smile on her lips.
This got the professor to smile as well, albeit small. He tilts his head slightly, as if in an attempt to meet her lowered gaze. She would have found it adorable, if not for the words settling heavily on her chest. She struggles to find the words, as the professor had asked him, “Is my observation correct?”
Then, as she could not help it, suddenly filled with amusing confidence, eyes brimming with faux sparkles of playfulness as she places her elbow on the desk, resting her chin on her palm, she jabs at him lightly, “What, professor? I didn’t know you have experience in student counseling as well.”
He sighs. “I did not intend to make this a counseling session. Perhaps I should make myself clearer than I already had been: you are not fit to perform in your current state, period. I will, however, refer you to the university’s counselor to remedy this, should you be willing.”
She stares at the neglected cup as she takes a large gulp from it, treating its contents like an alcoholic beverage. Might as well. It harms an organ all the same. “You need not concern yourself with this trivial matter, professor. Besides, do you have any idea how many of us are like this? It’s not just me, you know.”
“I am aware. I spoke to them as well.”
She should be surprised at that, but somehow she wasn't. Instead, she only scoffs. This is getting ridiculous, frankly. “Why? If it’s this much of an issue to you, then why is your passing rate as low as my chances at winning the lotto? Many of your students fail, and many have possibly gone to a mental state as bad as mine, maybe even worse. We get it – this course is difficult. This program is difficult. Yet we struggle all the same. Is it that we all are just idiots begging to be gazed upon by the mighty Ratio, heeding his advice like it’s a verse from the bible? Or are you just too smart for your own good?” She pauses as she takes another sip, then does not take her time to recover as she continues as soon as she swallows.
“I mean, eight doctorates? Who the fuck does that? Why would you subject yourself to that?” She knows she’s just rambling, her voice quivering, and that as soon as she’s finished – idly, she wonders why the professor had not cut her off, as he lets her continue her jibber jabber with the same look on his face – the professor might mock her words later on, but she could not bring herself to care.
Hot tears form at the pits of her eyelids, and she takes a sharp exhale, blinking away the pitiful waterworks. She’s way too exhausted for this shit. She had barely slept a wink, she hadn’t been able to accomplish anything at all the night before because this was all she could ever think about, grasping at any idea, no matter how miniscule, as to how to proceed with this meeting without walking out pathetically defeated. As things are now, she was obviously going to fail. Great.
The professor still had the same look on his face, undeterred. “Are you finished with your rambling?” He did not raise his voice. It remained firm. Gentler this time, but still the same firm. She hated it. She admires him all the more.
Her own hands cover her face in shame. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
“I wish to continue this conversation, but it seems the topic weighs heavier than I expected,” the kind professor’s words are obviously carefully curated, yet it calms down the storm stewing at the student’s chest nonetheless. She exhales a breath of relief, perhaps a little too shakily.
“Instead, I would like to ask a question, if you do not mind.”
She knew it was too good to be true. She indulges him anyway, sighing as she removes her hands to meet his gaze. “Hit me, prof.”
“Do you not enjoy your current degree program?”
A humorless laugh. “No.” Perhaps she was too quick to answer this, the answer already resting on her tongue, prepared for this moment.
No noticeable reaction from his face, no distinct changes in body language. Not even so much as a hum of mere observation, nothing. It was as if Ratio was trained for professional interrogation, a detective in the past life. She would have laughed at the idea.
“Then, what is it that you wish to study, if given an opportunity?”
No further questions? No “why did you take it in the first place?”? No “you’re an idiot if you think you would survive an entire degree program without any passion for it.”? It was odd. But she just brushed it off, clearly exasperated now.
And honestly, she would have already given up on this conversation an Amber Era ago. But it just so happens that she admires this professor, and the fact that she had him curious to a fault, how could she pass up any opportunity to consult his expertise — one that she dreamt of doing as soon as she steps foot into the lecture hall where he speaks ever so eloquently?
But an opportunist as she may be, she wanted him to clear the confusion. “Respectfully, sir, where are you going with this?” Normally, the tone of her own voice would scare her, as she did not want to lash out on the professor. But with all the caffeine buzzing in her system, as well as the mental toll the whole conversation was taking on her, and the sleep deprivation on top of her persistent anxiety? The professor could kill her right now and she would let him.
But it seems the professor was not at all affected by this. Was this how all of his sessions went?
“I am inclined to let you know that I do see through you. You may already be thinking of how lacking you are in terms of determination to seek out knowledge on your own, and thus affecting all else. But allow me to ease your worries in this regard by saying it is of your will to be here, for whatever reason it may be. That the lack of determination precisely stems from the fact that you do not possess any passion for this field — which I could hardly relate to myself, but I understand nonetheless. Your light seemed to have dimmed because it was not facing the right direction. It’s like deeming a flashlight useless when it was directed towards a path where light is already present. You shine where you perceive darkness, one that seeks out your light specifically.”
Her eyes widen, the words driving her to silence once more. The professor only continues. “An idiot never worries about being an idiot — for it is in that state that they experience bliss, willingly imprisoning themselves in that snug bubble. But you — you long for that bubble to pop, as the lack of air suffocates you. Yet struggling is all you have ever known, and so you have grown to embrace the suffocation.”
The student’s chest grows heavy, prompting her to take a deep breath. As she exhales, it becomes shakier than the previous ones. If she were to actually weep in here, at least it’s within good reason now. Goodness, Ratio and his words.
Scrambling for the proper response, she instead opts for deflection using humor. “Hey prof, I really do think you should try becoming a counselor.”
The professor merely huffs at that. “Good to hear that you are still of sound mind to be joking in this manner.”
“I think it’s the caffeine, honestly,” she responds sheepishly, hand scratching her nape.
He mulls over the topic of caffeine, one that he had a peculiar fixation with earlier. “Hm. Should we talk about that?” But he must have realized something, as he paused, mind running like a VHS tape rewinding. “Actually, I would rather hear your answer to my question, if you would be so kind.”
Ah, that. The professor never really forgets anything so easily, does he? Instead of complaining any more, she opts to give a proper response instead. It wouldn't hurt. “You know how I said you should try becoming a counselor just now?”
She gives the professor time to conjure up what it might entail, but she quickly follows up instead, as an unusually long pause breeds awkward silence. “I do mean it. I am rather passionate about studying human behavior, and if my favorite professor takes up this field too then I would be delighted.”
She’s aware of how transparent her innermost desires must be right now, but she finds the professor to be trustworthy enough at this point.
“Ah, psychology then. Well that is rather befitting for you, I suppose.” It should be a little upsetting that nothing seems to surprise the professor, but it is endearing to see the expression on his face transitioning to pure realization as his brows ease down from curiosity.
The student’s admiration for the professor is one she could not easily put into words. She sees him as a man of virtue, and she is afraid of tainting him with her mere presence. She longs for a connection with him, not one with the desire to bed him or any of the sort — she quickly pushes the thought away, unwelcome and uncomfortable — but also not a friend. It might be the closest to what she wants, but it’s not exactly that. She does not see him as a father figure, either. She is very content with her relationship with her father figures, thank you very much.
Although the thought of wanting to bed the professor makes her gag, she is shameless in finding the man attractive. Toned muscles, a gentle vibrating voice that cools a man even in the peak of summer, with a face — clearly sculpted by the gods — that one can tell is well taken care of, a hair cut to the optimal length with his hair type and color, a unique sense of fashion that is typical of his character, and the laurel hairpin that puts it all together. This notion could be what makes her struggle to put a name to what sort of connection she wishes to have, but it is a connection that at least requires the standard boundaries of a student and a professor nonetheless.
Yet, despite all that, she still wishes to put a wider distance between the two of them, willing him to stray as far as possible due to her instability. She wants him to despise her, to tell her she’s a disgrace to the cosmos even as he tells her he understands her struggles. Because here’s the thing: the professor does not understand her struggles. The professor fails to realize that these struggles — or, if she entertains the voice from the deep recesses of her mind, the lack thereof — vary from his own perception of what a struggle is.
She is afraid that a connection between the two of them would sever as quickly as it had formed, when the professor would soon realize that there was nothing to see behind her issues, and that all there is to see are the issues themselves. That she was not as substantial as he made her out to be, disproving a hypothesis that was baseless — far-fetched — in the first place.
But all she could do at that moment was to put on the remnants of her fading façade, willing herself to still attempt at looking brave, even as the professor had seen through her. “How would you know that?”
If the professor saw her crumbling mask, he did not comment on it. “Those who are in need tend to have the desire to obtain it themselves. It doesn't take a genius to apply this logic to you as well.”
She is grateful for the comfortable atmosphere the professor had set this time. Easing into the playful bickering, her voice no longer quivers. “Well excuse me for assuming it’s because you read me like a book, which I admit had scared me for a bit.”
The professor now had a melancholic look on his face, a rare sight. “If it makes you feel better, I rather struggle to ‘read people like a book’. All throughout my childhood I have been isolated due to my inability to recognize social cues.” That does not make me feel better. It pains me to have learned this about you.
She tries to hide the sadness from her face, making no further indication of the shared information clearly not working. Instead she smiles, shifting her focus on the fact that he slowly eased onto her enough to share this one piece of information. She tries to provide him comfort as well. “Oh but professor, what you failed to realize is that you did in fact read me well. You are a keen observer through and through.”
“And that is the result of years of honing this skill. It is not naturally gifted, as would the average human be given.”
A beautiful answer. Her admiration for him grows even stronger, bordering on overwhelming.
“Which makes it all better for me, if I’m being honest. It shows your love for humanity, that you would go through such lengths just to understand them, even if you loathe their ignorance.” As he had done earlier, the student now attempts to reciprocate the kind words the professor had given her. It’s important for him to hear this as well, even though she’s not as good at words as he is.
Perhaps, the reason why she seeks a connection with him is that she could see herself in him, and yet shame washes away that thought as she thinks about how far apart their leagues are. It’s like saying a celebrity is so much like you. It’s one thing to say they’re relatable, but it’s another to say they lead a similar life to yours. The great Veritas Ratio leads a life that induces a mixed pool of emotions in people — jealousy, inspiration, admiration, some a mix, etc. — with a small faction being indifferent.
Yet she could see the loneliness in his eyes, one that she easily recognizes to be the same look when she faces the mirror. Does it get lonely up there in the sea of clouds, the same way it gets lonely down here in the bottom of the deepest pit?
Do you long for a connection from those above, where they could only spare a glance if you call out their attention with extreme measures, or from those below, where they couldn't bear the sheer amount of greatness you possess, overwhelming them with your prowess, borne out of the desire to make humanity better?
Is it what you long for, perhaps the same as mine? Do you long for someone to see through your soul, just as you have seen through mine?
He only sighs, eyes closing briefly before they meet hers once again, amber hues captivating, “I merely wish to free all of humanity from the shackles of the fatal disease that is ignorance, that is all.”
She is quick to respond to that. “And you are a gift to mankind, my dear professor.”
“You are too kind.” The professor could only give her a smile.
Then, a beat. He glances at his watch, and his eyes widened. “Ah, my apologies. It appears I have forgotten to set a timer for this very session, and failed to notice how much time has passed. My previous sessions were not at all like this. Do you have any class at this hour? Am I holding you up?”
Not at all like this? She tries to play off her excitement. “Don’t worry about it, prof. I wasn't really planning on taking attendance at any of my classes today, so I’m happy to report that my time is all yours.” Which is true, to say the least. She planned on sleeping the whole day, after dedicating all her waking hours to this very moment. No regrets.
The professor gestures at her cup once more. “Is that why you’re on your fourth cup of coffee just this morning? Are you inducing a heart attack on yourself?”
She barely noticed it to be there anymore, with how the coffee tasted sour in her mouth the last time she took a sip of it. No more of this caffeine binging, goodness. “Ah, I’m not even gonna ask how you know it’s precisely my fourth today. They weren't all in one go, I had been drinking since 1 AM this morning.”
He winces at that. She could imagine the horrors he’s feeling. “Have you not slept at all? It is no wonder that you have been quite snappy today.”
She lowers her head slightly, feeling sheepish. “I’m sorry. I really let my emotions get the better of me.”
He offers her a small smile, one that she really appreciates. “No worries. I will issue a doctor’s note and have you excused for the rest of the day. You may go home now and take your rest.”
Her eyes widened.
Then, a paper folded in fourths is handed to her, with what seems to be pills contained inside. “Take this on your way. The paper contains my weekly schedule, should you require further consultation in the future. The medicine inside are over-the-counter sleeping pills. You should not take any more caffeine for the next three days at least.”
Hot tears begin to pool at her lower eyelids again. She takes a final deep breath, unwilling to break down once more, as she readies to leaves the room, content with the entire conversation. “Thank you, professor.” Then, because she couldn't help it, “I wish you were this nice in the classroom.”
The professor was quick to respond to that last statement. “The path towards knowledge is a path that is unforgiving.” A smile tugs at his lips once again, getting more used to their playful bickering, then gestures for the student to take her leave. “Now go. This is the last time I will be doing this.”
A smile plasters her face. She turns to leave the room, her chest feeling warm.
As she closes the door behind her, she finally opens her phone for notifications. The email icon immediately caught her attention, one that is undeniably from the professor, with the subject "Scheduled Consultation". She opens the email to find that he had set a schedule for 8:30 AM, to which she arrived at 9:00 AM.
Ah. So he did set a specific time.
Perhaps it wouldn't be too odd to use the word ‘love’ to describe her feelings. Perhaps it’s the caffeine that makes her all giddy. Perhaps it’s the lack of sleep that makes her delirious. Either way, she never thought of the word ‘love’ to be something very exclusive to romantic partners and close friends and relatives, because it’s too restricting, because it should not be limited to only the socially acceptable types of connections.
Perhaps the ‘love’ she feels for the professor is the ‘love’ one would typically feel towards someone they look at with pure admiration. She recognizes him to be someone she could never form a typical relationship with — whether it be romantic or platonic — and it felt right for her, at least in that moment. He would not be the first person she would seek intimacy with, certainly not the last, but he would be the first person she would seek enlightenment from. A person harnessing great feats she could only dream of having.
Perhaps it is because he is a personification of her complex dreams and aspirations that she desires a connection with him, a connection neither fragile nor strong, a connection that remains stagnant, unwavering. Is it idolatry? Maybe. She could never feel bad about it regardless.
But oh, she is still most definitely failing the semester.