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The box sits on your desk through first period like an accusation.
You'd packed it three weeks ago—back when the silence in your apartment had become unbearable, when every mug and hair tie and worn paperback of Janine's felt like a tiny knife. Better to rip the band-aid off, you'd thought. Clean break. Except there's nothing clean about seeing your ex-girlfriend every single day in the teacher's lounge, watching her laugh at Gregory's jokes with that bright, effervescent energy that first made you fall for her.
The energy that's been cranked up to eleven lately, actually. Janine's been relentlessly upbeat. Even for her.
Which is fine. Great, actually. It means she's moved on. It means the fight—that fight, the one where three years of carefully avoided conversations came spilling out at once—didn't devastate her the way it devastated you.
"Ms. L/N?"
You blink. DeShawn is staring at you from the second row, his pencil hovering over his worksheet. The entire class has gone quiet, waiting.
"Sorry, what?"
"You said we're solving for x, but there's two variables in this equation."
You look at the board. He's right. You've written the problem wrong. Heat creeps up your neck as you grab the eraser, your hand shaking slightly. "Good catch. Let me fix that."
The thing is, you used to be good at this. Math made sense—clean, logical, solvable. But lately every equation feels like it has missing pieces. Variables you can't account for. Problems with no solution.
Your students deserve better.
Lunch period. You're holding the box like it might explode, standing outside Janine's classroom door. Through the window, you can see her arranging construction paper on her bulletin board, humming something to herself. She's wearing that yellow cardigan you always loved, the one that makes her look like literal sunshine.
Your chest aches.
You could leave the box outside. Knock and run like a coward. But that feels too much like what you've been doing for three weeks—avoiding, deflecting, pretending everything's fine when your entire world has tilted sideways.
You knock.
Janine turns, and for just a second—less than a second, really—something unguarded flashes across her face. Something that looks almost like hope. Then it's gone, replaced by that bright smile that's starting to look more like armor than joy.
"Hey!" Her voice hits that particular register of cheerful that you've learned means she's trying too hard. "What's up?"
You lift the box slightly. "Your stuff. Sorry it took so long."
"Oh." She sets down her stapler, wiping her hands on her jeans even though they're not dirty. A nervous gesture she probably doesn't realize she's doing. "You didn't have to—I mean, thanks."
The silence stretches. You should leave. You're definitely going to leave. Any second now.
"How are you?" The words escape before you can stop them.
"Good! Really good, actually." She's doing that thing where she talks with her whole body, gesturing enthusiastically. "My kids are finally getting the hang of long division, and we're starting our unit on community helpers next week, and I'm thinking about doing this thing where we—" She stops herself, the animation draining slightly. "Sorry. You probably don't want to hear all that."
But you do. God, you do. You miss this—the way she could talk for twenty minutes about a lesson plan, her eyes bright with possibility. The way she saw magic in the mundane.
"Sounds great," you manage. "You're doing great."
Another beat. Janine tucks hair behind her ear—there it is, that tell—and reaches for the box. Her fingers brush yours in the transfer, and you both freeze.
"Well," she says, pulling back too quickly. "Thanks for bringing this by."
"Yeah. No problem."
You're at the door when she speaks again, softer. "How are you?"
You should say fine. You should match her energy, pretend you're thriving, make this easier for both of you.
"Hanging in there," you say instead, which is generous.
You don't look back as you leave, but you can feel her watching you go.
------
By the end of the day, you're vibrating with anxiety. Your seventh period class had been a disaster—you'd snapped at Kayla for talking, immediately felt terrible, and then overcompensated by letting them have free time they definitely didn't deserve. The inconsistency is probably confusing them. You're certainly confusing yourself.
You're shoving papers into your bag when Barbara Howard appears in your doorway like a perfectly coiffed guardian angel.
"A word?" she asks, though it's not really a question.
You nod, trying to arrange your face into something approaching professional. Barbara settles into one of your student desks with the grace of someone who's been teaching since the dawn of time, folding her hands primly.
"How are you holding up, sweetheart?"
The kindness in her voice almost breaks you. "I'm fine."
Barbara's expression suggests she's not buying what you're selling. "I've been teaching for thirty-five years. I know what 'fine' looks like, and this isn't it."
You sink into your desk chair, suddenly exhausted. "My students deserve better than whatever I've been doing lately."
"Your students are lucky to have you," Barbara says firmly. "Even when you're going through something. Especially then, actually—shows them that teachers are human too."
"I turned down the department head position." The confession tumbles out. "At Jefferson. More money, better resources, but I'd have to leave Abbott. And I didn't even tell her. Janine found the rejection email on my laptop, and she just—" You stop, swallowing hard. "She said I was making her the reason I wasn't growing. That I was playing it safe. That she never asked me to give up opportunities for her."
Barbara nods slowly. "And what did you say?"
"That she was worth more than any promotion. That teaching here, with her, building a life together—that mattered more." You laugh, but it comes out bitter. "She said that wasn't romantic, it was codependent. That I was putting pressure on her she never asked for."
"Was she wrong?"
The question lands like a stone. You think about those lazy Sunday mornings, curtains drawn, sharing a joint while Janine rambled about her week. How everything else would fall away—the stress, the doubt, the persistent anxiety that hummed under your skin. With her, you could just be. No performance, no pressure.
Maybe she had a point. Maybe you'd been using her as a life raft instead of building your own boat.
"I don't know," you admit. "I just know I loved her. Love her. And I miss her so much I can barely breathe sometimes."
Barbara reaches across the desk, squeezing your hand. "Heartbreak is a beast. Doesn't make you less of a teacher, just makes you human. Give yourself some grace."
"She seems fine," you say quietly. "Really happy, actually."
Barbara's expression shifts into something knowing, almost sad. "Does she now."
------
What you don't see: Janine, thirty minutes later, sitting in Melissa's classroom with tears streaming down her face.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," Janine hiccups, mascara smudging under her eyes. "I should be relieved, right? Like, we fought all the time at the end. Different priorities, different life goals. But I just—I miss her. I miss her so much."
Melissa hands her a tissue with surprising gentleness. "Then why the hell are you bouncing around here like everything's peachy?"
"Because if I slow down, I'll fall apart." Janine's voice cracks. "If I let myself think about Sunday mornings, or the way she'd explain math concepts until I understood them, or how she'd rub my feet after parent-teacher conferences—" She breaks off with a sob.
"Kid." Melissa's tone is softer than usual. "You can't fake your way through grief."
"She brought my stuff back today," Janine whispers. "And she asked how I was, and I lied. I stood there and lied because what else was I supposed to say? That I've been sleeping in her old t-shirt? That I keep almost texting her twenty times a day? That I think I made the biggest mistake of my life?"
"Then fix it."
Janine shakes her head miserably. "You didn't hear the things I said, Melissa. About her playing it small, about her anxiety holding us both back. I was so mean. And I wasn't even completely wrong, which makes it worse. We were stuck. But god, I'd rather be stuck with her than free without her."
Melissa sighs, pulling Janine into an awkward side-hug. "Love's a real bitch sometimes, huh?"
"Yeah," Janine whispers into her shoulder. "It really is."
You're in your car when your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number, except you recognize it immediately—you just deleted the contact in a fit of self-preservation.
Your classroom's bulletin board is coming loose on the left side. Thought you should know.
Such a Janine thing to notice. To care about.
You type and delete three different responses before settling on: Thanks.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Nothing comes through.
You sit in the parking lot as the sun sets, wondering if she's doing the same thing. Wondering if she's staring at her phone, trying to find words that don't exist. Wondering if the space between you is something that can be measured in miles or moments or missed opportunities.
Your phone stays silent.
Eventually, you drive home to an empty apartment that still smells faintly like her lavender shampoo, and you don't let yourself cry until you're in the shower where no one—not even you—has to acknowledge it's happening.
Tomorrow, you'll see her in the teacher's lounge. She'll be bright and bubbly. You'll be fine and functional.
And the space between you will stretch just a little bit wider.