Professor

The things I knew about her, the way I watched. It was all to protect her, all to know her.

She liked her tea with milk and sugar – extra sweet – just like I knew her lips would be if I were to kiss her. I was desperate for her. She chewed on her pencil when she was concentrating, her little tongue coming out and moving along her bottom lip.

I was hungry for her. She played with the ends of her hair when she was nervous. Her fingers – delicate, long, and her nails painted pink – played the piano. The things I thought about her doing with those tiny hands. And she bit her bottom lip when she was worried, those straight white teeth sinking into the red flesh, like an apple being broken into, the crack of it consuming.

I didn’t deny I wanted her. I didn’t even try and hide it. Innocent. That’s what she was. I stalked her, knew her every like and dislike, and obsessed over her. I wanted her like I’d never wanted anything in my life. And I told myself that watching her and following her was to keep her safe. To keep her mine.

I was her professor. She was my student. It was wrong to need her the way I did. But she consumed me like I was gasping to breathe and she was oxygen. I was a selfish bastard, and when it came to Grace, I wanted her all to myself.