Since this morning was in a rush, I didn’t even stop at a bakery or a supermarket to buy food. Usually, I avoid crowded rooms, especially the ones where I could run into my students. But today, my time is limited. And I chose the Tower Café, situated inside the campus library.

  Most of my courses are already finished and perfected, but as a Doctor and a teacher, I surely know how quickly the medical and scientific fields can evolve, even in the course of a night. Which is the main reason why I like to eat while reading the latest science article. I’ve been following Doctor Esmeralda Gorgio’s work intensively for the past four years, and social media informed me of her new project on cell alteration and its potential improvement regarding various aspects of mutations.

  As I sit with my food tray and the magazine in question in hand, my ears faintly catch the sound of my name on my left. My eyes were so glued to the article that I didn’t notice the table that I chose. “Doctor Miller, what a surprise!”

  Six of my colleagues are here, all are either mathematicians, biologists, or physicists, and teach in the same building as mine, but answer to a different department. The last time that I talked to them was at the meeting. First day of the school year. Well, talk is not even the appropriate word.

  They all stare and wait. Because, of course, refusing isn’t even an option at this point. Besides the relentless urge to snatch the paper, leave my food, and quit the room, I do the opposite. Their eyes grow bigger, and for some reason, I feel pride at their astonishment.

  “Four years and I’ve never seen you set foot in this service area,” says one of them. It’s a pain, having to watch their faces with much concentration in the hope that a name will emerge from my memories.

  “Do you all come here every lunch?” I ask instead. Spreading my reasons is not part of my plan.

  Emily Arner, a physicist, offers a large smile and sets her fork down. “Rarely. It’s usually the Carmichael Dining Center since Gloria’s gluten intolerant.” She points at the woman sitting in front of her, two chairs to my left. I nod. So, the timing is just perfect. I managed to choose the exact day and hour to bump into them. “What are you reading?”

  “Hum. Doctor Gorgio’s latest article.”

  The man in front of me lifts his head, a piece of salad blocked between his two lips. He does grant us the pleasure of swallowing his mouthful before speaking. “You read her?”

  “I’m a biology teacher, of course I read her,” I retort. He lifts his eyebrows and goes back to eating. His name might be Nathan…

  “Sorry, we’re just startled by your humanity.” Another woman blabbers from Emily’s right. She didn’t share one glance at me and kept her arms crossed over her chest since her coworker expressed the desire to have me at their table.

  I’m fully aware my recluse attitude and sufficient demeanor might have created resentment toward me. Anger, or straight-up hate, even. I mostly gambled on indifference, and I imagine that’s what a majority of them have chosen.

  Emily finally breaks the silence with an uneasy laugh. “It’s just that we barely see you. Some have started to invent that you were a robot.”

  A pause. Can I really blame them? No. I’ve made no effort since the beginning of my teaching years because of how tunneled my vision has been, focusing on the end of the road. So tunneled that I had decided that making friends along the way was truly unnecessary and time-consuming.

  I never presumed they would spend their time creating rumors about me. “I eat, sleep, and shit like any other human being, yes,” I respond with a tinge of bitterness. It does crack a smile on Emily's and her friend’s faces.

  “Well, we were worried.”

  “Is there a reason you are so… alone?”

  The question startles me. I could be honest, tell them of my plan, how long it takes, and how exhausting it is, but I would rather tear out my own nails than start venting on my troubles and struggles here, at the Tower Café, between the books and the students. “If anything, I chose to be.”

  Nathan hums and admits. “That’s too bad.”

  My eyebrows furrow. Too bad?

  “I’m sure we would have benefited from your expertise,” Emily adds.

  “My expertise?” I genuinely query, the bite of my pizza interrupted.

  She continues. “We like to debate on various subjects during our lunch break or when we join the professor’s lounge. And we know that for a young doctorate, you’re very talented. It would have been a pleasure to discuss with you about your previous and upcoming work.”

  The heat rises on my cheek, and I look down to avoid being noticed. Is it coming from awkwardness, shame, or pride? Maybe all of the above.

  Suddenly, my pizza doesn’t look so appealing. Before the silence becomes deafening, Emily turns to her right. “Sarah, should we—”

  “Come to the party next week,” the man directly to my left exclaims. “It’ll be fun.”

  His name is Russel. He’s much older than I am, and expresses something wise, careful, astute. He and Doctor Felandra were good friends. Still are, I guess. She’s not dead, just very close to the end of her pregnancy. I often saw him in her classroom when I would brainstorm with her for my replacement courses. Sarah and Emily watch him with wide pupils, but I’m sure for two different reasons.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Sarah hisses, but nobody else reacts. Nathan’s fingers play with his lips, and Russel shares my gaze expectantly. And the fact that it’s him, of all people, that decides to invite me to that party, it might be one of the most exciting situations that I've ever been a part of.

  ?

  My mother opens the door with a fatigued face embellished with a solar smile. “My son, come.”

  She lifts her arms and makes the noisiest kiss on my cheek, but I accept it and return the hug. “Do you feel better?”

  “What do you mean?” Her words are pronounced fully, and with a distinct tempo I could listen to for days and nights. I try to stop her in her tracks, but she slapped my hand twice before she could reach the cabinets and display pastries on the table.

  “Dad told me you were sick. Isn’t he here?”

  “No. Your sister has a night out, and your father is working late. Again.” She gestures for me to sit down with her. When I obey but don’t start eating, she grabs a cookie and puts it in front of me.

  “You made Medovníky? You know it’s not Christmas yet.” I joke.

  She bats her hand and rests her elbows on the table. She looks tired. “One of your sister’s whims.”

  Since her back injury, my mother cannot work anymore. She has a special permit that allows her to rest at home while still earning a certain amount of money. “I hope she’s not overworking you.”

  “Overworking?” Her voice cracked through the bitter laughter. “That’s the least I can do.”

  Her accident happened not so long ago, and it inflicted another stab into an already healing wound. She complained that keeping her locked would only make her die sooner, but Stefan is a stubborn man.

  He lets her tend the garden on her best days. “So?” I continue.

  “So what?”

  “How do you feel? Are you still sick?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have kissed you if I was still sick, synak! It was just a little...” She touches her throat twice and searches for the words.

  “Inflammation?”

  “áno.” She agrees.

  I bite into the cookie, the scent of cinnamon beautifully burning my nose. “You know you can call me if you need to go somewhere. I can drive you.”

  “I know, I know. You sound like your father.”

  I snort. If we had something in common, it would be our love for our family. And yet, when I think back, I can pinpoint a moment or two where this wasn’t his priority. “I’m sure you don’t take that as a compliment.” She adds. And the sentiment that fills my bones is disappointment. “He’s a devoted man, Alex.”

  “For his work, yes.”

  “It does make me think of someone else, too.” She eyes me with a mischievous grin on her face. I know where Elena got that from.

  “I am his son. He did raise me with his values.”

  “Don’t pretend he is the only one who got you so workaholic.”

  “That’s a fancy word. Where did you read it?”

  She giggles. “On a stupid people magazine.” She brings another cookie from the plate to my hand. I’m not even hungry, but I eat it anyway. It makes her happy. To know her children are healthy. If there is health, at least happiness can be worked on. That is one of the values she educated me on.

  “You are angry.” She says it with a softness that could easily bring tears to my eyes. Whenever I had trouble expressing my feelings as a child, she would immediately find the words, and I only had to nod. Our hazel eyes clash, and she lifts her fingers to brush my cheek, my hair, my ear. “It will eat you inside.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. She is right. Yet, I can’t move on. Moving on would mean forgetting, and this isn’t an option. My presence at the University, the courses that I teach, the articles that I write, all of it is a perfect reminder of what I should never forget.

  She waits for an answer, I realize, but despite chasing the tears away, I have to nod, because my mouth can’t open. “I want you to be happy, love. You deserve to do this for yourself. Your father is already hard to handle.”

  The words snap inside my brain. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you think for a second that your father is not affected anymore. He is still hurting. Just as much as you.”

  “How? Wasn’t coming here his way of putting the past behind? Wasn’t it his way of saying goodbye?” My tone is harsher, but she knows it’s not meant for her. She keeps patting my hair, and it grounds me in the present.

  “You have always been like this, my boy.” Her expression is endearing. I frown. “You have always taken to heart what was deeply important to you. Sometimes to the point where you lose yourself.”

  She is always right. It seems I’m an open book to her. Maybe because I’m her son. Or probably because I’m so undeniably obvious. “I won’t lose myself, Mom.”

  “I see it. Your worry. In your wrinkles.” She touches the soft skin next to my eye and between my eyebrows.

  “Hey. I’m not that old yet.”

  She huffs and smiles. “How is work going? Something happened?”

  “Quite the opposite, actually. Nothing seems to be going forward. I’m getting impatient.”

  “Elena said you met a man. She insisted you were boyfriends.”

  I have to bite my lip hard not to curse in front of my mother. She despises hearing us use swear words. The only ones she says sometimes are in Slovak. But in a time like this, I wish I could curse a little. “We are definitely not. She saw us talking and made up immature conclusions.”

  “That does sound like your sister.” Her smile shines as bright as the light in the room. The sun is slowly descending, and the orange glow of its setting engulfs the kitchen with an aura instilled in confessions.

  “Would it be a problem?” I ask.

  Her eyes dart to mine and search for the reasons inside. “If you had a boyfriend?”

  I only nod. My heart is beating hard. I don’t know why I need to hear this, but apparently, I must. Because her answer brings relief. “Oh zlatko, of course not.”

  Her arms snake around my body, and we embrace for a long time in pure silence. When I pull back, the night has begun. And I drive back to my apartment with fear churning my stomach, for reasons I’m not ready to admit.